I don’t winter well. Just ask my husband.
Andy underwent surgery on Monday. With the threat of the storm of the century looming, I left the hospital as soon as he was out of recovery to hunker down in my apartment with Walter Sobchak.
I decided to walk from Methodist Hospital in Park Slope to Grand Army Plaza to take the train home. The subway is 10 blocks from the hospital, and it took me about 30 minutes to walk along the snow filled sidewalks.
As I turned up St. John’s Place, I walked past a brownstone where snow was flying upwards from the ground. I looked over to see what the situation was, and there was a 50-year-old man lying on the ground, by himself, making a snow angel.
I mumbled, “Hey crazy… Welcome to the North East.”
In his defense, maybe he is a lifelong New Yorker who just loves winter, but his unbridled excitement made me want to move to Florida.
Every year I try my best to stay positive about winter, but around this time in January I crumble. That man wanted to make snow angels and I wanted to throw a temper tantrum.
As a kid, snow falling was an exciting event! As an adult, I loathe its appearance.
I think the turning point was the year I got chilblains while walking to the subway on my way to work. Or maybe it was living in Astoria and waiting on an elevated subway platform only to be pummeled in the face by icy wind over and over. It just sucks.
Are you thinking: “April, you are weak! Just suck it up!”? Then you are right! I should just suck it up. But I can’t even be bothered to rise to the occasion.
If only I were independently wealthy and could spend the winter in a warmer climate, I would be in heaven. But until then, I’ll try not to throw a temper tantrum and just dream of sand angels.