We’ve long ago established how much I detest winter, yes? Then you can imagine the joy that filled me near to bursting as I drove home from work in today’s blizzard.
It took me almost two-and-a-half hours to cover 13 miles. Most of that time was spent sitting at a dead stop … but the rare moments during which I was moving were made all the more lively by the exciting manner in which my tiny, little, 15-year-old, far-too-light, front-wheel-drive sled — er, car — spun its tires in place and made repeated overtures toward sliding off the roadway. (Granted, it would have had plenty of company.)
Fortunately, I grew up in Boston, where my friends and I spent every snowstorm of our teenage years perfecting our arctic stunt-driving skills … which is why, during today’s commute, I was able to narrowly maneuver my way out of some ugly moments that would have had most gamblers betting the farm on yours truly becoming one with a snowdrift.
As if the treacherous, unplowed roadways weren’t enough to deal with, this was one of those shitty, unyielding storms that makes everyone’s windshield wipers keep icing up. After reaching out the window several times to quickly bang the ice off the driver’s-side blade as it reached its apex (because I sure as shit wasn’t getting out of the car to do it), I employed my tried-and-true method of turning the heat all the way up with the fan maxed out on the “defrost” setting. Sure, it felt like I was sitting in a dry sauna for two hours and I was sweating my ass off by the time I got home … but every motherfucking snowflake that came within six inches of my windshield was vaporized before it could even think about clinging to my wiper blades. So there.