They Both Smell After Three Days

Dear Old Man Winter,

It would seem that, not content with arriving unseasonably (and unreasonably) early, you have also determined to overstay your welcome.

As a result, The Husband and I have now had to drive three times (thrice!) through some kind of winter storm on our way to and from our home and native land. We have long forgotten the sun. Even the schoolchildren are trudging these days, having run out of snow fort blueprints and hampered by snowboots too tight that we can't replace since winter must be almost over and there's no point in shelling out good money for new ones that will be too small come next fall.

And yet there seems to be no "almost over," with fresh snow every few days and record numbers of snow emergencies and snow piles that are scheduled to remain and block my view of oncoming traffic until at least June.

Heretofore, the injuries I have amassed due to your overabundance have been mostly mental; the greatest toll was on my spirit.

Until now.

Until icy roads covered with an inch of fresh powder to which you were adding steadily prevented me from running outside this weekend.

Until I had to use my treadmill.

And fell off.

There are additional injuries. But they are in a more *ahem* intimate posterior location and thus not suitable for a family blog such as this.

It does not matter that it was I who got off a moving treadmill to adjust the fan while still wearing my headphones so that I could continue laughing at Arrested Development. Nor does it matter that it was I who stepped back on the treadmill one second prior to remembering that I had not paused its movement before getting off.

No, this is not my fault.

I blame you.

Go home.

Sincerely,

Peitricia Mae

P.S. I also blame you for each time The Husband has said sorrowfully, "I can't believe I wasn't there to see it. Please tell me in detail how it happened again, especially the part about phase one and phase two of the fall."