I am not a fan of snow. I used to like it in moderation, but that was before I moved to Ohio. Now I hate it with the passion I reserve for ugly shoes.
See, I grew up on the Eastern Shore, where we would get one snow a year if we were lucky. Winters were high thirties or the low forties, gray, and rainy. Scarves were a fashion accessory, and gloves were forgettable. Winter, in short, was a couple of months that we endured while we waited for tourist season to return.
And then I met Ohio.
But let me explain.
J and I got married in November, and on that weekend, out here, it was in the sixties. I ran around in my dress all day without a sweater and was just fine. We then went on a cruise for our honeymoon, and were back in Ohio just about in time for Thanksgiving. He and his brothers have this WRETCHED tradition in which they go shopping on Black Friday, and I'll never forget that morning. I was still in the stage of being a newlywed in which I would try to accommodate his crazy ideas, so I got up at the CRACK OF DAWN to go out and see the madding crowds. As I stepped out of the car, onto the thin sheet of ice that coated the parking lot, it was 11 degrees. ELEVEN DEGREES. Without counting windchill. I stood there, shivering, the wind slicing swiftly through my wool coat that had, until that point, been perfectly sufficient for my purposes. I stuffed my bare hands deep into my coat pockets and thought "If this is winter in Ohio, I'm going to die."
We bought a pair of gloves that day.
We've since left the shivery wasteland that is the midwest, and seem to have dragged the snowy weather with us. However, two winters out there have left me quite capable of surviving near-arctic temperatures. My vintage coat collection includes several fur/fur trimmed pieces that I wear without remorse, and I've learned that you can pretty much live in a leather jacket as long as you have a good scarf and gloves.
But I still hate snow.