Hello, gentle readers!
Well, this week's been one for the books hasn't it? With half the U.S. freezing and/or digging out of snow, another polar vortex is heading our way bringing even more cold and freezing weather. And this time, ladies and gentlemen, it's personal. Because, this time, I may get snow.
Ladies and gentlemen, I am not a fan of snow. I lived in the Great State of Alaska for fifteen years and have had more then my fill of the white stuff. Once, after a blizzard, I waded through waste high snow to get to work.
So, when I returned to my ancestral lands, in the Southeast U.S. of A., I thought I'd seen the last of snow anywhere except the television. Alas, it seems I'm about to experience snow anew.
The weather reports say that we could get as much as eight inches of the stuff tomorrow. For those of you tuning in from Russia (Hello, lovely Russians!) or Northern Europe (Hello, lovely Europeans!), eight inches of snow is nothing. It is the meteorological equivalent of a silent fart.
Alas, I live in the South, where, if so much as a single flake of snow strikes the ground, people fly into a panic. There are runs on the supermarkets for the Holy Trinity of Snow Supplies: Toilet Paper, Bread, Milk.
Since I am living among my southern brethren once again, and anticipating that tomorrow's commute might be problematic, I decided to get a jump on the mobs and go to the grocery store today.
I intended, dear reader, to buy a few microwave dinners. Maybe some extra soda and a can or two of ravioli. (Yes, canned ravioli. My apologies to my Italian readers.) Just enough stuff to fill the basket I always pick up at the door.
Unfortunately, they were out of baskets so I decided to grab a shopping cart.
I was just going to use the toddler seat of the cart, I swear to God, but things sort of got out of hand.
To make a long story short, lovely readers, I filled the shopping cart.
I bought things that I never normally buy. A loaf of bread? Milk? Cereal?
I think I can blame the bread and milk on innate Southern genetics which seem to become dominant during snow-related events. But generic Pop Tarts? A big container of pimento spread? String cheese?
By the time I walked out to my car, pushing a bag filled cart, my hands were shaking.
What had I done?
What had I become?
Turning, I saw a pair of women, bundled up in quilted jackets and snow pants, hurrying toward the store. It's sixty five degrees right now and these ladies were bundled up as if they were about to go skiing.
And I realized, in one of those sudden bursts of clarity that we all sometimes get, that in about five more years, I would be just like them.
Immediately, I went right back into the store and bought a four pack of wine coolers, then came home to write all this down.
And as I sit here, reflecting on the ridiculousness of the situation, I cannot help but think: Should I go buy extra toilet paper? Should I?