Yesterday was beautiful. 15-degree weather. The sun was out, and spring was in full swing.
I woke up this morning, and this is what greeted me:
Here's the thing: I like winter. I hate winter traffic, the black slush in February, and the salt damage on cars, but something about winter feels good. It reminds me I'm alive. I thought about this as I walked across the parking lot at the bus station. My eyes were squinting and my head was down as I trudged over to the warmth and comfort (and books) in Indigo. Sleet stung my cheeks, and the wind made sure to pull my dress pants in a less-than-flattering contour of my ankles. (For those of you who don't know, my calves like to stay at the top, leaving my ankles looking marathon-runner-skinny.)
I was reminded of how small we are in the eye of the world, but it felt good. The cold on my face was about as pleasant as a shot of whiskey--which is to say, not very--but I liked it. Call me crazy.
Of course, the Jays start their season tonight. They're leading the Tigers 12-5, and I just read this fantastic NYTimes article on Roy Halladay, so maybe I am ready for spring. Maybe.