Saturday, February 7, 2009


I have been in deep denial about an old adversary that has me pinned to the ground in a death grip. Same time, same place. The winter blues.

It infuriates me. Every year I flood my brain with resolutions for outwitting this foe -- keeping busy, exercising more, nutrients, routines, guilting myself, meditation, prayer, PREMPTIVE STRIKE IT'S WAR MIZ SCARLETTE!

It does not help that I am married to The Iowa Snow Man. A tall lanky germanic specimen who I sometimes suspect was engineered in a test tube. This is a person who ostentatiously persists in wearing his khaki shorts in January, and of course, Top Siders and no socks. Who unhelpfully bellows good cheer about brisk, bracing days when the temperature is in single digits, the wind is howling and all I want to do is stay under my comforter sobbing.

My husband's older brother, who looks like he could star in a gladiator movie at age 60, was right: My husband diluted the bloodline with me. He was joking. That hardcore German-slash-Midwestern clan NEEDED some southern intervention (rescue really). But Mid-Atlantic winters should not be enough to send the mewling into a flying leap off the psychotic cliff. Yet, here I am, right at the edge, clinging to a frail sun-deprived tree branch, what is left of my frozen little mind. Pardon the melodrama.

And by the way, note to self: Grow up already.

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