A well-earned retirement from winter

Last weekend's weather proved to me something I pretty much already knew: When it comes to cold, snowy weather, I've gone completely soft.

It wasn't always like this. I grew up in Iowa, you know. Up North, we used to get our first snowfall by mid-November, and the ground would stay blanketed in white as late as April. I have distinct memories of going more than four months at a time during my childhood without seeing grass.

So you'd think a few inches of snow, like we had Friday night, wouldn't bother me. But it does. I hate it.

Some folks say they like to see it snow at least once a year. But not me. I'd be happy if I never saw other drop of crystallized water in my life.

To some, I no doubt sound like a weenie. A snow-wimp, if you will. But it's not like that to me. In this case, I feel more as if I've simply "retired" from snow. I put up with the white misery for my entire childhood, and into the early years of young adulthood. I've seen big snows, small snows, light dustings and major blizzards. I've see trace snowfalls, 6-inch snowfalls, and 12-inch snowfalls. I've shoveled driveways, taken snowballs in the face, and suffered the ever-so-pleasant sensation of having snow go down my pants while sledding. I've even endured the fashion humiliation of "moon-boots."

In other words, I've done my time. I've seen it all. I've paid my dues. And now it's time for me to be done with it all.

Oh sure, I used to play the game that many transplanted Northerners do, when you belittle Southerners who aren't used to large doses of winter weather. "Oh, this isn't cold!" we'll say incredulously when the temperature dips into the 20s. Or we'll say. "Calm down! It's just a little snow," after an 10-inch blizzard. (Although, for the record, it should be noted that there are a lot of Southerners who still act as though it's Armageddon at the first sight of a snowflake.)

But I can't play that game any more. When it's cold, I'm cold. And when it snows, I hate it. And every winter, you can bet I'm counting the days until it's shorts weather once again.

That's why the warm-up we've experienced this week has been welcome. While it's still only borderline shorts weather, we seem to be moving in the right direction.

And that's a good thing as far as I'm concerned. I'm no longer a thermal-underwear-wearing, looking-forward-to-sledding, snow-shovel-in-the-garage kind of guy. I've given up that nonsense. Now I'm a shorts-wearing, burgers-on-the-grill, loving-the-smell-of-freshly-cut-grass kind of man. And I think I've earned it.

I'm hoping last weekend's wintry blast was simply a matter of Old Man Winter rearing his ugly head one last time against the inevitable invasion of spring. And I'm hoping the warmer weather we've had this week is a sign that spring is here to stay. I'm ready for it. Bring it on.