Cold-hearted

To the big surprise of no one at this point, it snowed again. To the big surprise of me, however, this storm brought ice with it. I mean, I’m no stranger to ice. I’ve spent 30 minutes hacking inches of ice off of my car just to be able to open the door. Scooted around the slickest streets in a tiny Ford Escort wagon. I know all too well that “ice storm” is really code for “power outage.” I’m well-versed in the ways of iciness, so wussy slick spots and hard snow are like “psh, plz.”

I just wasn’t expecting this round. Somehow I forgot that while 32 degrees might be considered mild around these here parts by now, it still means things, you know, freeze.

So when I walked out to my car this morning, I was under the impression that everything, while white yet again, was hunky dory, at least until my body felt the need to introduce my butt to the asphalt without really letting my brain in on it. One minute I was standing up and the next minute, I… wasn’t.

I’m fine, thanks for asking. More importantly, no one saw me. I know, because that was the first thing I looked for before inspecting my extremities. Ego before injury, I always say.

Tonight, when I was leaving my parents’ house, I started verrry carefully down their walkway. Sure, it was shoveled and salt-treated, but I was a little fearful of gravity for obvious reasons. My parents are behind the screen door, monitoring my trek.

My mom, to my dad: “You know if she falls, we’re going to laugh.”

Yeah, laugh now, senior citizens. Just remember who will be picking your nursing home.

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