I like to think I’m a patriotic Canadian what with my unabashed love of the beaver, my fondness for our long winter months and my ability to rock any and all sweaters, even those garishly ugly Cosby type sweater vests and the insanely ugly Christmas sweaters with the blinking Rudolph noses smack in the middle of your chest.
But lately, I’m starting to rethink my love of all things winter related as I get progressively older and my bones start to become as frail as a baby bird’s.
I’m starting to think winter is trying to kill me.
And I’m not just talking about the winter roads and my poor driving skills although it’s a well documented fact I drive as well as a blind person hopped up on crack as soon as the snow starts to fly. There is a reason my husband saves all year long so that he can put heavy duty steel studded winter tires on my vehicle. It’s because he’s had to haul my arse and our car out of a snow bank one too many times and apparently he doesn’t consider this a fun winter time activity we can all partake in.
It’s the ice. It’s everywhere. For some reason it just won’t stay on the roads like it’s supposed to so grouchy underpaid government contractors can drive up and down sanding and salting the ribbons of pavement through out this beautiful province.
I swear I hear the ice patches taunting me as I walk across them. It’s like they’re just waiting to howl with delight as I howl in pain when I land on my arse.
I’m pretty sure the iceberg that sank the Titanic got the last laugh. I’m just saying.
I’ve been extremely cautious with our winter conditions for a few years ago, ever since I decided in a moment of clear brilliance to wear a pair of slippers outside as I packed my precious little doggie in my arms so he could go potty. You see my dog is a princess and doesn’t want to go outside to do his bidness if the temperature drops. His paws are sensitive.
I realized, as my feet slipped out from under neath me on some hidden ice and my dog struggled in my arms and I was hurtling my way to the very hard ground that perhaps I had made the wrong choice in footwear. Two surgeries later and a relentless back ache and it’s been confirmed. Even my princess dog looks at me like I am a dumbass.
But recently, my sister-in-law slipped on some ice herself. And instead of busting her back like I did, she shattered her elbow. The difference between her and I? She was at least wearing proper shoes.
2 pins and some chicken wire later and Aunt Dandy will one day have a working bionic arm. I however, may never recover.
I’m so paranoid about going outside now I’ve started looking at having industrial sized rolls of bubble wrap sent to my house so I can wrap myself and my kids in it every time we need to wander beyond the warmth of our house.
My husband likes to remind me that wearing proper shoes would probably be sufficient to keep me safe. However, now that his sister is all hobbled like a busted up arthritic geriatric person with more metal inside her arm than the bionic woman herself, I can rightfully point out that his theory has been proven false.
Bubble wrap would indeed be safer.
So imagine my excitement when I found a giant parcel with my name on it waiting for me at home. I was convinced that my husband had listened to my concerns, heard my arguments and provided his family with a life time supply of bubble wrap to see us through the Canadian winters.
I gleefully tore up on my package to find the ugliest, biggest pair of winter boots a person could ever hope to not own. And sadly they weren’t packaged in bubble wrap.
Maybe they wouldn’t be so bad if they were yellow. And not as tall as my youngest son.
My husband? Well he insists, that much like bad tasting medicine, these are the boots I need to swallow, I mean wear.
I’ll forsake fashion for warmth any time, but these? These may be my limit. Don’t tell my kids though, because I’m totally making them wear the pair their father sent for them. Hypocrisy for the win.
It’s going to be fine though. Because I am a clever girl, even if I do like to wear my slippers outside in the snow and ice.
I found me some ice cleats. That I can slip on over my slippers.
It’s like I blinked and turned into a fuddy duddy without even knowing it.
Because somehow, wearing steal studded slippers out in public is totally more cool than wearing industrial sized winter boots.
I’ll save the boots for when he’s home though. So he can enjoy watching me tromp about in them and see just how sexy they are.
In the meantime, winter may be winning the war, but I at least totally won this little battle.
As long as I remember to wear my studded slippers when I go out in public.
Shhh. Don’t judge me.