It can’t be snowing again. It just can’t. But, there it is. The white stuff is coming down and it looks like it’s got purpose. I’ve already been stuck in my house for the past three days. And while I was originally fairly well stocked, now things are getting serious. I’ve scraped out all I can from the jar, but it’s time to call it: I’m officially out of peanut butter.
There’s an easy solution under most circumstances, but it’s like Alaska frozen out there. Take a deep breath and your lungs scream and the snot freezes in your nostrils before you can get to the car kind of frozen.
There’s a chance I could make it to my car, but I’m guessing not without sustaining a compound fracture to a limb in the process and those of you who know me well, know I’m not joking about broken bones and ice. Plus, I imagine any EMT, when they finally find me, dressed in my winter uniform of plaid flannel pants and a High Point University sweatshirt with the collar cut open (I have a thing about tight collars), with my bedhead hair stuck to the ice, would have a hard time wiping it from his memory. It would be like PTSD for sure.
Scott Hamilton would come in handy right about now. Maybe he could throw a triple something or other so that I land safely and gracefully next to my car door. But even with Scott Hamilton, then what? Since I have no garage, I’ll need a good 20 minutes to chip the ice off the vehicle and by then I’d lose the energy to continue, even with peanut butter as a reward.
Plus, the roads are like a black diamond run and I’m no expert. So basically I’d need half the US Winter Olympic team to make it to the grocery store. I’m telling you people, the cold does things to us. Scary things. I guess I’ll get peanut butter tomorrow.
But, that would mean I’d have to get out of bed tomorrow. Rising every morning is not usually a big challenge for me, but… it’s freaking freezing! My toes curl up in horror at the prospect of having to make contact with the cold floor. My ass begs not to plant itself on that frigid toilet seat. Should I make it as far as the shower, I’d need to stand under steaming water for a solid five minutes before I can stop shivering and begin to shampoo. And let’s not even talk about getting out. The tile is brutal. God forbid, if my husband opens the bathroom door and releases even an iota of that delicious, warm steam, I’m reaching for the blade from my razor.
On the bright side, there is coffee… right down in the kitchen. I can actually smell it. My God, what would we do without coffee; the promise of its warmth, its flavor, its ability to jump start my heart and get the blood moving again? I make my decision. It’s a new day; maybe I’ll get some peanut butter today. I’ll get up.
I have a plan. I’ll forge ahead. I’ll make it to the store. Thinking about it makes me giddy. Oh, the things I’ll buy. Maybe I’ll see actual people out and about. I’ll hear conversation! Maybe I’ll make cookie dough. Maybe buy a steak.
But wait…I spent most of January dieting. Having so enjoyed December’s over indulgences, I struggled with no bread, booze, beer or butter for a month. I did it; I subtracted all the joy of December from my life in January, and now here I am in February, frozen, and out of peanut butter.