On Sunday night about a foot and a half of snow was dumped on my charming little city, burying us all in the undeniable reality of winter. I don't know if we somehow upset the karmic balance with our mild winter last year, but this year its making up for it with a vengeance. We've already had more snow in the month of November than we had all winter last year.
The result? Well, thanks to poor city planning (which refuses to learn its lesson year after year), the budget simply doesn't cover the proper removal of snow and road upkeep. Therefore, when the snow fell, the roads were already covered in a thick sheen of ice that had yet to be attended to. The driving conditions on Monday morning were horrifying, and when I arrived at work my knuckles were still bone white from gripping the steering wheel so tight.
I've lived my entire life in this city, so driving conditions this bad are nothing new, but each time I can feel my heart beating wildly against my chest as I carefully navigate our abysmal roads. It drives me crazy.
And where is my point in all this? The weather has completely destroyed my desire to leave the house. I'd rather eat cereal for supper than go for groceries, let alone go out for the sole purpose of socializing. My hatred of poor driving conditions keeps me locked in the house, where guess what? All I can do is write. Yep. It turns out winter is my slave driving muse. True, I also take a lot of naps, (A LOT), but I get a lot of work done. It's been said that the best place to write is in a cellar on a rainy day, but I disagree. The best place to write is in your living room when winter has made the roads impassable.
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