Tag Archives: sleet

3 Reasons Why Michigan Winter Is Slowly Turning Me Into a Lunatic

Or, 3 Reasons Why I Will Need a Deep-Tissue Massage and Possibly Psychiatric Care When Spring Finally Arrives, Which Probably Won’t Be Till August

1. Driving in snow. 

The first time I had to do this, it was at night after a fresh snow fall. I was all, “What? Couple inches of snow? No problem, dude.” Pure hubris. By the time I reached my destination 20 hellish minutes later, I was shaking with abject terror. I may have even cried. I mean, just a little. Cause that trip was a slip-sliding, brake-failing, red-light running RIDE OF DEATH. And yes, I said brake-failing. Turns out, tires can get so slick with snow that brakes will, you know, sort of stop working. Surprise!

2. Wearing winter gear.

I can’t put my arms down!

Seriously, it feels just like this. Sometimes, riding along in the car wearing my engulfing puffy coat and knotted-up scarf and tight-laced boots, I will suddenly feel so claustrophobic that I see black spots. My entire being is squealing “Let me out! Let me out! Omg arrghghhhuuugghh!” But of course the car is too small for me to wriggle out of those mummy wrappings and I just have to sit there and try not to claw at myself like a maniac.

3. Getting sleeted in the face.

My skin is suffering, y’all. This delicate peaches-and-cream needs balmy breezes and gentle warmth to flourish—not angry blasts of tiny ice daggers. And even if it’s not blizzardy outside, the wind alone is frosty as a beeyatch. Plus, the air in general, in or outside, seems much drier and way more harsh; I think I’m starting to understand what grapes feel like when they turn into raisins. My normal moisturizing routine—chapstick, lotion, more chapstick, MORE LOTION—has become even more obsessive than it used to be. Actually, I didn’t realize the true extent of that statement till I went around the house and gathered up the various products I’ve been using lately, which I keep stashed in strategic locations:

If I don’t turn into a chunk of ice and shatter by spring, I will be lotion-y enough to make some serial killer a nice, supple skin suit.

A few times this week, husband tried to sneak chapsticks from their assigned stations to keep in his pocket at work, which caused me to develop an acute case of Crazy Eyes when confronting him about it. Trust me when I say that I will not survive this mini Ice Age unless I have endless supplies of salves and balms at my painfully dry fingertips. So persons who are interested in getting into their side of the bed and NOT discovering a dirty sludgeball from the pile of old plowed snow in the parking lot better think twice before trifling with me.

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