Apparently I talk about the snow a lot on Fridays (don’t worry, I know today is Tuesday). Peering at the piles of it in the gray light of the early morning, I thought I would just search my own blog to see how often I perseverate about the wretched stuff. Turns out kind of often, and especially on Fridays. From a brief glance, I can see that I may even be a bit of a whiner. Something about it makes me bitterly, and coldly, angry.
Anyway, I finished the Great Clothes Change Over of 2019, so now I can begin the long winter task of picking up snow suits and mittens and hats off the floor in one endless procession of snowstorms that usually begin sometime in January, but because God is so angry with the world, are starting in November when a lot of the leaves are still on the trees.
There goes the snow plow, back and forth, back and forth.
I finished Nora Ephron’s book last night, the I Hate My Neck one. That brings me up to 50 books so far this year. I have been straining towards the outlandish goal of 60 but I think it might be just beyond my reach. Can I really read ten books in a month and a half? Or listen to them? I have four in the works right now. It will be quite a push—and during the busiest season of the year no less.
The thing that I always like to do, when I set a goal of some kind, which I have been habitually doing for the last five years or so, is, when I don’t meet it, instead of saying to myself, ‘but look, you’ve read 50 whole books’—which would be one way of looking at it, but by no means, I think, the best way—to instead lament, ‘blast it all, how horrible to come so close and then to fail.’ This spurs me on to self-flagellation and pride, two things I’m already really good at.
I found myself wondering about her husbands and children, about the hints of grief that she mercifully passes by, the ugliness of death that looms over her bright and cheery prose. I mean, not wondering very much. I’m sure I can guess. Everyone’s life, in one way or another, is a total tragedy.
Mine sure is. Stupid wretched snow.
*If Nora Ephron can write a book called I Feel Bad About My Neck, it’s only fair that I should write a hundred blog posts called I Hate The Snow.