We had another wallop with snow yesterday, where I maintained it was at least a foot and Hubby says no more than eight inches. He’s mathematical and statistical by nature, with a good sense of distance and estimating, so of course I’m maintaining that I’m correct. After all, Older Daughter and I were out shoveling while he was at work, so we know better.
It was a very wet snow, so shoveling was slower than normal. And when I say “normal” I mean I didn’t give up after half an hour. I stuck it out like a pro, going a full hour and fifteen. (Okay, so twenty of those minutes were spent chatting with my neighbor who was shoveling, too…but we helped her with her driveway after we finished ours, so you know what? I win.) It didn’t even seem all that cold outside, so when it was finally over we had worked up a nice sweat. (Now there’s a phrase I never thought I’d type, “Nice” appearing with “sweat.” Maybe the weather is finally getting to me.) After stripping off all the wet outerwear I was in no mood for French toast or hot chocolate or even a shot of Bailey’s Irish Cream. And now this makes me wonder: why did I spend all those years being the concerned mom/wife who wanted to make sure my family had the requisite French toast/hot chocolate meal after playing/shoveling/etc. in the snow? Was it all for naught? Were they lying to me all these years? Or am I just a freak for not wanting the true snowtime experience? Another sleepless night ahead of me, I can see it coming. And how about that grouping of slashes in my sentence? Nicely balanced with three sets, and I didn’t even try.
In other news, I am delighted with the machinations going on in my home state and its governor, and I think fondly of the words my mother used to say to me when I would rhetorically ask why bad people would get away with doing bad things: “Remember, time wounds all heels.” ‘Nuff said.