My friend Peggy texted a photo last weekend to our college chums group chat from her home in South Dakota.
I’d always thought she was nice. Now I’m not sure.
Because the photo she shared was the awfullest, nastiest, stinkiest thing to send to someone who hates winter.
Did you see the image above? That’s the photo.
You’re shocked too. Right?
“Look what you’re missing!” she wrote.
Shaken, I clasped my phone to tap a response:
“Brrrrrr!”
Count the r’s. Six. A number I calibrated to match the pain the photo inflicted.
I once lived in Nebraska, near Peggy. I survived many winters there, bundling up, shoveling snow, scraping frozen windshields, thawing my frosted mustache. It’s how we lived. No problem.
No, big problem. I now live in subtropical Louisiana, where I whine when temperatures dip below 70.
In Peggy’s town, the average daily low temperature in November is 24.9 degrees. In my corner of paradise? It’s 49.4 degrees.
And that difference says everything. Winters in the subtropics clearly have helped me evolve into a higher being.
A winter weenie.
Winter at 30-Second Read
A cockamamie scheme for winter
