I’m curious to know the statistics of broken/bruised tailbones and wrists in Minneapolis as opposed to the rest of the country. Because my immediate thought is that it’d be something like 90 to one.
When you live in the tundra, you get used to certain things. After some twenty odd years, you start to accept the fact that five to seven months out of the year are classified as “winter” and that getting excited about summer on the first balmy 50 degree day in March is what we call “yeah fucking right.”
Civilians in the tundra are also masters of adaptation. When the temp hits below zero, cute pea coats and attractive not-quite-opaque tights go out the window. Everyone and their mothers are bundled in a sleeping bag, head wrapped in a hat and scarf, with only a slit of visibility for the necessary ability to walk without running into a pole. Long underwear is the norm, and woah unto the person who decides to forgo that extra layer. It’s called the tundra for a reason.
But despite our inclination to prep for the bitter winds, there usually always comes a time during the winter when it warms up just enough to elicit freezing rain/hail/sleet. At first it’s all like, “Woop! Woop! It’s finally warming up a little! My boobs no longer have to be concave!” (I am in defense of the idea that this actually happens. It’s so cold I actually feel that I regress into myself). But then the temp drops back down again and it’s all like, “OH MY GOD.”
No matter how grippy you think your state of the art, waterproof, fur-lined boots are, they are NO MATCH for the deadly ice the settles over the city the morning after a brief tropical weather visit. (“Tropical weather” = approximately 30 degrees).
Last night, I went into a bar to have a drink and apps with a friend. We walked out of the bar, and in the hour or so we were soaking in the beautiful smell of yeasty home brews, the sidewalk had turned into the DMZ.
I took one step outside the door and suddenly I wasn’t a part of my body anymore. I was watching from above in slow motion as my legs flew out from under me and I helplessly gripped the air for some semblance of support. I didn’t find it. Instead, I landed right on my ass and just sort of laid there for a second. Or ten. It was kind of like that scene in A Christmas Story when Ralph falls in the snow and can’t move. Except I was lying on ice. And the fall wasn’t nearly as cushioned.
The good news is that my leftover quesadilla was still intact and safe in its box. Let’s be real, if this is going to continue to happen, I needed all the extra calories I could get just to bulk up my cushioney parts.
But in all seriousness, it took me double the time to walk to the bus stop this morning. I shuffled down the street like the freaking Hunchback of Notre Dame because there was NO WAY I was going to fall again. I didn’t even take my pup for a real walk. I made him bano it up back by the dumpsters like a homeless dump diver to avoid breaking my tailbone. I’ll give him a treat later or something. Whatever. The little fuzzball gets to cuddle all day in our warm apartment while I brave the apocalyptic winds coming off the river. Not that I’m jealous or anything.
The real question is, why hasn’t anyone invented a Winter Butt Pad (I call copyright on that name…it’s brilliant) that is both chic and attractive and doesn’t look like Kim Kardashian pooped it out? Attention all engineers/inventors/whatever you call yourselves: please make this product. It would ease the minds of the Midwestern population and probably make you a lot of money. Or it could flop because who wants to wear something called a Winter Butt Pad? It just makes you think of menstruation during a snowfall.
But I digress.
Dreams of a White Christmas ended about 2 months ago. It’s time for some fucking drink umbrellas and a hot, sandy beach.
No pressure, but my birthday’s just around the corner, in case you were wondering (hint, hint).