Sunday, January 9, 2011
What if the snow makes me want to eat people?
I sat down at my computer and began composing a lovely little essay about a menacing Mad Crapper who is on the loose in my town. As I was typing, I kept shifting in my seat and losing my train of thought. I found myself staring alternately out the window and at a blank wall without giving any effort to putting coherent sentences together. I could feel the anxiety building inside me, and it wasn't just the idea of someone spreading poop like a demented Johnny Appleseed that was fueling my worry. (Although it does make me throw up in my mouth a little to think of someone using their feces as a writing instrument, but that blog will have to wait.) No, something else was raising my ire, and I realized that it had to do with that annoying/chilling buzzer sound that kept going off and interrupting my digital music channel, the one set on spa music to help soothe my frazzled nerves. It was the National Weather Service, and they were screaming at me, "Snow is coming! Snow is coming!" My cold weather-induced panic attack had begun, and all stories about poop flingers would just have to wait.
Folks get mad at me when I say that I hate snow. It's funny how snow bunnies think I need to embrace being indefinitely home bound with my pantry fat from frenzy-driven bread purchases and a couple of cows worth of milk, but I live in the South, the glorious, sunny, humid, balmy, tropical (intolerant, politically-challenged) South. When the threat of snow is imminent below the Mason-Dixon line, the Earth suddenly stops spinning on its axis, and all of us sandlappers truly believe that we will never again grace the aisles of Wal-Mart until Easter. It's a mad dash to the grocery store because apparently, instead of sledding and building snowmen, we are all going to be in the kitchen making toast and scrambled eggs...lots of it.
For me, it goes deeper than simply hating to be inconvenienced, cold and wet. I fear snow. There is actually a name for it: Chionophobia. I have completely irrational thoughts when snow is in the forecast. Even though I've spent weekends without changing out of my pajamas or leaving the house, the idea that that I can't leave the house if I want to makes my heart pound. Despite the fact that I have never in my forty-two years been trapped by snowdrifts, I suddenly believe that a once in a lifetime blizzard will pile snow up to my roof, and I'll be stuck in the house with three incontinent dogs until spring.
Snow has a way of stirring up my overactive imagination in ways that might be considered unhealthy. What if my tooth suddenly abcesses, and my face swells to an unrecognizable size, and enroute to the ER we crash the car into a ditch, and then we have to walk to the hospital, and I lose all sensation in the lower part of my body on the way, and then I become delirious, and I begin to look at my husband and wonder how good he would taste cooked up with all the eggs we bought then smeared between a couple of those slices of bread, and then I realize I'm going all Donner party on him, and my worst fears are confirmed? Snow makes me just a little crazy.
So, don't chastise me for for not jumping on the I Love Snow bandwagon. I don't care how beautiful it is as it slowly lands on the fencepost. Snow kills. Do not try to bully me into proclaiming that I ADORE having on wet jeans and stripping the partially frozen clothing off a crying six-year-old who stayed out too long and is now the color and texture of a grape popsicle. I'll be sitting in front of the TV with my eyes glued to the Weather Channel and praying for a return to more traditional southern temperatures. Or maybe I'll watch that marathon of "My Strange Addiction" on TLC. Now, those people are messed up....