Before I lived in Los Angeles, I lived in Minnesota for many years. As the difficulty of winter increased for me I struggled to describe to friends how I felt about snow. I realized the best analogy for my relationship with snow was this: It’s like dating a crazy person. The following is my attempt to break up with snow. It will probably get ugly.
You and I have to talk.
We’ve been seeing each other on and off for more years than I like to think about and—no, no—Snow—I don’t want to play. No, I don’t want to throw you at my friends or roll you into balls and make you a man. That’s just weird.
Snow. This is serious.
It’s not you, it’s me, but I think we need to break up.
No, no, Snow, don’t lose your shit. I don’t deny we’ve had some really good times together. Usually in December.
You’ve been away for a while and when you first come back I’m excited to see you. You look fresh and pretty. And, honestly, it’s really nice to have you around for the holidays. I sit by a warm fire and I could just stare at you all night.
But then January 1st hits and I am so fucking done with you.
Why? Because I know you’re going to spend months making ridiculous demands of me.
How many times have I made plans with friends that I have had to cancel because of your bullshit?
I’m sick of the embarrassment of calling my friends and family and saying, “Sorry, I can’t make it to dinner or the show or the family reunion because Snow showed up in the middle of the night and fucked up my car.”
You don’t care what’s going on in my life. You show up whenever you want with all your needs and your issues. Shovel me! Scrape me! Blow me!
Not to mention my favorite passive aggressive game—pour kitty litter on me or I will knock you on your ass. That’s just deviant.
And then you try to play it off like it’s cute. You’re all like, “Oh, come on, stay home from work, lie down inside me, and let’s make an angel together.”
It’s cute in December, Snow, but by February, it’s just pathetic.
And that’s another thing. By February, you’re not exactly pretty anymore. Thousands of different people and machines have trampled through you, you’re full of mud and filth, you keep melting and refreezing, melting and refreezing. By March we finally start to see the truth: you are a messy, dangerous bi-polar pile of crazy mush.
No, no, I am not being overly harsh. Remember when I said it wasn’t you, it was me? I was lying.
It is totally you. You’re insane. You dictate where I can park my car!
By the end of March, you are downright sociopathic. I’m not playing with you enough, so you start a big melt to try to get my attention back. The second I start to feel a little sad that you’re leaving, you pound me with another ten inches.
That’s it. That’s the end of the story. Can we just be friendly about it?
Can I have my stuff back?
What stuff? All the stuff I’ve lost inside you over the years. Hats, mittens, keys, glasses.
No, you do not give them back every year. I wait while you slowly melt to find the stuff I dropped. Somehow, my class ring never reappears but you manage to retain every single piece of dog shit you’ve collected for the last six months.
See? I can’t do this anymore. You drive me into a frenzy of anger and whining. I can’t even complain about you to my friends because they’re sick of hearing it.
All they say is, “If you hate this relationship so much, why don’t you just move on?”
And the answer is: I don’t know.
Maybe I like to complain. Maybe it is me. Maybe I’m afraid to try a different relationship.
What the hell is out there for me, anyway? I don’t want to date fog. I don’t want to build a life with dry heat. I know you’ll just follow me to the mountains.
I need to be strong. I need to break the cycle. I need to do something crazy like hook up with a fault line.
Until then, you and I are stuck with one another, Snow.
But from now on, we are just friends. And barely that. I’m sure I’ll see you at parties. Whether you’re invited or not.
I’ll do my best to be civil and if I can’t look at you without screaming, I’ll just hide in my house. But if you pile up on my roof and try to break into my house—I will get a restraining order.
Have a good life, Snow, have a good life.