A Trio of Terrible

In my life, there exists a triumvirate of discomfort: cold, wet and far from home. When they're experienced separately, I can deal just fine. But oh man, as a one-two-three punch of awful-ness, is there is nothing more terrible than feeling being cold, wet and far from home at the same time?

Yes, I do realize the above statement was needlessly hyperbolic—plenty of things are more terrible than that, frankly, but let's be honest. I think by now, I've established myself as a little bit of a blogging drama queen, so I'm gonna go with it.

The state of being which I have dubbed "the worst," (as in, "No, I will not be applying for membership in the Louisville Polar Bear Club. I don't want to be the worst.") offends my delicate constitution, and so, I try very hard not to participate in events where there's a distinct possibility that I will end up cold, wet and far from home.

Right now you must be thinking that I hate the snow.

That, sir or madam, would be erroneous.

I enjoy the snow. It's pretty, plus, I don't drive to work so I don't get annoyed at it. Plus, snowball fights are fun. Yes, I enjoy the snow … for approximately 45 minutes. That's the tipping point for me, when little crystallized chunks of snow find their way into that space between my glove and jacket sleeve and start to freeze my skin. My toes curiously lose all feeling, despite the six pairs of socks I'm typically wearing. That's about the time the snow and I need to part ways. And really, I will miss skiing, but the entire sport is designed to keep you busy all day—way longer than me and snow's previously agreed-upon 45-minute grace period. Not to mention the fact that skiing is all about traveling away from a fixed point. Because let me clarify one thing: "Home," in this case, can be anywhere that offers the comforts of home (fireplace, hot chocolate, hair dryer). It doesn't necessarily have to mean my apartment (and actually, my apartment doesn't have any of the aforementioned comfort equipment, aside from the hair dryer).