Now that it's almost gone, I'm giving you my final thoughts on winter. I titled it....My Winter of Discontent. Let me know what you think!

My Winter of Discontent

I hate Winter. I hate being cold. I hate having to wear an undershirt under the regular shirt under the vest under the sweater under the winter jacket, with a scarf around my throat, a scarf around my face, a hat on my head with earmuffs over the hat.
And that's just to take out the garbage. God-forbid I should take my dogs for a walk. That entails long-johns under my pants under snow-pants.
Here's my problem with so many clothes. After three pregnancies, the interim between washroom visits is short. 'Barely make it there' kind of short. By the time I finish layering, I have to go to the bathroom again. It's seriously depressing.
I also hate New Year's, another winter special. Every year my friend Nicolette and I make the same two New Year's resolutions: lose weight, exercise more. We vow that this year we'll succeed, by Golly, or else our names are MUSH.
New Year's Day! We're pumped for our first one hour walk. A new decade, a new year, a new regimen.
“I'll finish my Special K and be right over,” says Nicolette.
“I'll be ready.”
I start layering. I'm up to the sweater over the shirt...I have to pee! Whew, that was close! Now the pants.
Ten minutes later - I'm at the door having the Hot Flash from Hell.
Nicolette arrives in a frantic state. “I have to pee!” she cries as she strips out of her clothes and runs for the bathroom.
“Take your time,” I say. Meanwhile, there's a puddle of sweat around me; I'm melting.
Finally, we're outside and walking. It's snowing.
“It sure is brisk out here,” I say after a few minutes. My nostrils have frozen shut and my teeth are chattering. I have to pee but I'm determined to overcome the urge.
“What? I can't hear you through my hat and earmuffs,” shouts Nicolette. “I'm freezing my butt off!”
Nicolette grabs my arm. “We have to go back. I have to pee again!”
After we pare down to one shirt and pair of pants, I light a fire in the fireplace and make us hot cocoa with whipping cream.
Nicolette sighs. “We walked a lousy seven minutes. A disaster! Why did we think we could exercise in winter?” We each raise a whipping cream can in salute and fill our mouthes. “Next year, let's resolve to write a novel. We might keep that resolution.”
“If we don't run out of hot cocoa and whipping cream,” I reply. “At least we won't be cold.”
“But we'll gain a ton of weight,” muttered Nicolette.
MUSH, my name is MUSH, and I hate winter.