Dear Freezing Cold, one that is below the zero below zero,
I hate you.
This isn’t a little or a normal hate. A hate that bubbles up in traffic when cut off and ejaculations are uttered but the hatred for the other driver wains as he disappears ahead. A hate that one has for food that transcends dislike. A hate for someone who wounds you and never apologizes. A hate for exercise or things that are healthy but you never seem to get around to liking them or even tolerating them or even the self hatred that comes from not doing them.
I hate you.
I hate you for a variety of reasons. I hate you for making it painful to breathe where the cold air sucked through the nose seems to crystalize the mucus in its tracks when it flows from the sinuses. I hate that my sinuses seem to burn when left out for too long in the freezing fucking cold. I hate that my mustache forms icicles from the hot breath coming from my nose that instantly melts the frost and then you, the freezing fucking cold, refreezes them instantly. Thank you for that. I hate that you make my lungs hurt like I just smoked a pack of cigarettes, chain smoking them in rapid succession, only you don’t have any euphoric effects, just bitter fucking cold. I hate that you lock me inside my house because I have to put layer after layer on and still freeze because jeans are not enough to stop your death ray called wind.
Even my car hates you. It rebels when I try to open it to make it start. It lets itself freeze to death in the vain hope that it can sit tidy in its parking space without having to do any work in your frigidness. It just wants to be left alone when it drops below the second to lowest zero. And even when I pry the door open from the death grip keeping it shut, my car refuses to let me use it in any utilitarian way. I don’t want to go to work in this cold, but I slaved away at bundling up and traipsing through the cold to get there and then my car has the same idea that I have — stay home. Instead of sitting in the cold waiting for the car to warm up so that I can touch the steering wheel without my fingers becoming lightly frozen to the cold pseudo leather, my car groans like a college student hungover before having to take a test.
My car hates you.
But you have cohorts.
Sidewalks that were once covered in downy snow crushed lightly underfoot into white mattes are now sealing the concrete in their own icy grip. What once was a delightful walk with the crunch crunch of the snow beneath my shoes has become a precarious venture of slipping and sliding that strains my groin muscles as I try to tease my legs back from their sideways jolts. And when I finally succumb, I look down on the subtle hill and the matte white of a light snow is now glistening with ice that is nearly imperceptible to the eye. You have transformed pathways into enemies that stand between my car and my return.
Sidewalks, I hate you too.
Slipping on my ass in pratfalls while my lungs wheeze for warmer humid air I finally find nirvana. I discover enlightenment. Only, nirvana is not a place, it is not a state of mind, it is a negative. Nirvana is anything but the freezing fucking cold that sucks the life force out of the souls of those who live in the north.
Dear Freezing Cold, I hate you.