I like winter.
No really, I do. I like the crisp air. I like the bright sunshine reflecting off fields of snow. I like seeing my breath.
I like exploring the city in the winter. I like stomping around the Don Valley with boots, gaiters, and snowshoes. I like taking off my toque after a hike and watching the steam rising from my shadow. I like skating. I like watching the wildlife in the backyard and park. I like looking out the front door on a Saturday morning and seeing a fresh snowfall. I like dodging all the piles of snow on side streets that make drivers slow down and be courteous to pedestrians and cyclists. I like stepping in little piles of slush and feeling it squirt out between my boot treads. I like walking through big puddles at intersections with my waterproof boots. I like being the first person to walk on the sidewalk after a storm.
I like shovelling at 2 a.m. after the snow has stopped but before anyone has packed down the sidewalk. I like hearing people say “Thanks,” when they reach the snow-free sidewalk in front of the house. I like watching drivers with summer tires trying to pull out of snowbound parking spots. I like cycling. I like talking to my neighbours about the weather. I like making fun of reporters who raise a huge fuss every time it snows.
I like wrapping my scarf around my face and pulling my toque down to my eyes. I like dressing in layers. I like wearing my lobster gloves. I like putting on long underwear. I like shaking snow off my jacket before I come inside. I like wearing Merino wool socks.
I like curling up on the couch with Risa and a hot chai. I like crawling under the duvet at night. I like rubbing Fletch’s belly while telling him how lucky he is to be an indoor cat.
But seriously, enough is enough. I’ve been ready for a few weeks now to start liking spring again.