It is nearly noon in Dayton. The grocery stores yesterday were an absolute zoo. Sidebar: why every person in a snow zone thinks that the answer to having drifts ten feet high and not being able to get out of the house requires bread, milk, and eggs is a phenomenon that I am not able to explain, because that is exactly what I got at the store myself.
Last night was so exiting! I lined up all the candles in the cupboard on one shelf, for easy access. I put a box of matches beside them. I practiced turning on my gas stove with one of the matches, knowing that the pilot light would be out along with all of the rest of the power. I made muffins, since the toaster wouldn’t work. All the laundry got done and folded. Because who knows how long we would be shut in? Clean clothes make you feel better as you peer out of your windows at the frozen tundra outside.
We awoke with such excitement, ran to the windows, and immediately began to shriek with disbelief. Rain. Nothing but rain.
I have checked my weather app every five minutes, and although they are still promising five to seven inches of snow later (down from the six to nine they predicted), I no longer have any faith in them. Because it is raining, damn it!
The prospect of a huge winter storm is the only type of adventure that I want. I don’t want to run a marathon. I couldn’t climb a mountain if my life depended on it. Hiking? Forget about it. But going outside and letting the driving snow fall directly on my face? Thrilling. Putting on boots and trudging out to fill the bird feeders with special seed with high fat content so the birds will survive the onslaught? This makes me feel like Amundsen. Reading my Kindle by candlelight? Just like the Brontes, except for the moors we don’t have.
I am deflated, disappointed, just a little depressed at the concept that now we have to have scrambled eggs and corn muffins for dinner.