Middle-aged Woman Seeks Old Man Winter for Possible Relationship

I think I might have Seasonal Affective Disorder, only in reverse. Shocking, I know, but, come winter, I want winter to come.

This time of year, when I scan the 10-day forecast, it's not a succession of lone, yellow orbs I'm looking for. No. I want mottled skies that spew things at me. I want clouds that add some contrast to the infernal brightness of a December sun. And some precip. Give me something that requires a shovel or, at the very least, a thick pair of gloves and the slow, steady gait of a very old turtle.

I want to know that, when I head outside, it's entirely possible that I may lose my way to the garage. And when I finally make it to the car, I want to fret, if only temporarily, that I forgot to pack a blanket and some saltines.

Come winter, I am not a shirtsleeves-and-jacket kind of gal.

That's why Saturday, in all its breath-sucking, parallel-snow-falling, bone-chilling glory was like a gift from God. Yeah, I could still go out in it, but not without a little forethought and luck. And my new, kick-ass winter coat.

Unlike those dull, pupil-piercing, cloudless December days when you wonder if there's anything to live for, a day like Saturday brings out the best in people. Stranger talks to stranger in line at the drug store, sharing tales of how they ventured out from their warm nests, all because they'd run out of toilet paper or baby aspirin. As though baby aspirin would save us now.

A day like Saturday harkens us back to our primal roots, those times when we all had hairy backs, not just that creepy guy at the swimming pool. It reminds us that, even beyond bowels and balanced checkbooks, we really do have little control of things. Rotten weather is a balloon-popping, skin-thickening, eye-opening opportunity to right ourselves in this world.

And I, for one, am in need of some righting.