A letter of discontent to Winter,
I just want to thank you for the wonderful gifts you bring us every year. From the spirit-lifting gust of nipple-hardening frozen air to the unnaturally dry skin that makes the most youthful of us look like Cloris Leachman. I have a simple question: Just where do you get off?
As I stand by my car in the satellite parking lot evaluating just how exactly I’m going to remove this ¼ inch of ice that has accumulated on my windshield, I reflect upon my life and ask myself, “Why do I still live here?” I tell myself it’s because my family all lives here. Then I get another blast of ball-shriveling arctic air shoot up the gap between my shirt and pants and think, “Well it’s only family, and I really don’t love them that much.”
As I scrape the ice from my windshield with my CVS Rewards card and become convinced at least 3 of my fingers will need to be amputated, the question crosses my mind that if Jen is not willing to move somewhere warmer with me, how hard would it be to start all over again? “I could make a new family of my own in Florida….. California….. No Arizona! That’s it! I’ll just move to Arizona. Sure it’s hot most of the year but I’m Hispanic, it’s my homeland!”
Besides potentially ruining my marriage, you have also done a number on my body with this uninvited intrusion of icy impropriety.
I believe the saying says, “Mexican don’t crack.” Well I have convincingly proved that stereotype false. Whenever the heating has to kick in, that’s when my hands and face begin looking like a topographical map of the Sahara. I work with paper at my job and hence my hands get paper cuts like I have been in a knife fight with a 1950’s gang of Lilliputians. As a guy who only uses lotion for a very specific purpose, which dry hands is not it, I feel like a drunk person trying to navigate a world where friction does not exist. I couldn’t tell you how many times my well-lubricated hand has slipped off a doorknob causing me to run head-first into the door. And if you’ve never tried to hold a hot coffee mug with hands covered in Jurgens, don’t do it. The dry-cleaning bill and skin grafts are not worth the soft knuckles.
Along with the dangers of dry skin, cold weather causes other biological responses that are neither helpful nor flattering to any male. Just ask my wife Jen, I’m not in any danger of overfilling my trousers. There’s not a lot of fruit in these looms but this cold weather causes a turtleneck effect similar to that of when one pulls their arm out of a sleeve too fast and it almost inverts and bunches up at the base. It’s like if someone took a Ken doll and glued a thumb-sized, contracted slinky to the front of him. Not only am I miserably cold, but you’re also emasculating me! Luckily I still have some lotion at home to get the blood flowing and warm things back up……(wink)
Although I do kind of like the feeling of being the world’s most useless superhero during the dry times. I would go by the name ”The Amazing Guy Who Gets Shocked Every Time He Touches a Car Door Man” or “The Shocker” for short. I would fight crime by jolting wrong-doers with a healthy dose of 37 watts of electricity after I put on a nylon shirt during the winter. And if the criminals somehow survive my vicious vending of vengeful voltage I will have my sidekicks “Chapped Lips Boy” and “Crusty Nose Girl” gross them out into submission. But seriously, why do I feel like I’m participating in enhanced interrogation at Guantanamo Bay every time I touch anything conductive? I roll over to kiss my wife goodnight and instead we share a current of electricity between our lips that would rival Tesla’s Machine which makes her scream louder than she ever has with me in bed… Good thing I kissed her before jumping right into the intercourse! That could’ve been uncomfortable…
Don’t get me started on those nut-bags that say, “I love winter! Cold weather makes me feel happy. Plus you can always add more layers!” True, but in the summer you can also strip down to nearly nothing, jump in a pool, turn on your A/C, and, most importantly, see chicks in Daisy Dukes and bikini tops! Never have I seen sideboob in the middle of a Midwestern winter. And if I ever do, I assure you it will only be my fat neighbor’s man-titty hanging out of his tank top as he scoots the trash out to the curb. Not exactly what I had in mind.
At some point layering clothes hits a saturation level. There’s only so many thermal undershirts and flannel I can pile on top of me before I lose the ability to wipe my own butt. And when you get to your destination, whether it be the store or a friend’s house, you then have to strip off all the layers like you are the world’s saddest Alaskan stripper and pile them up like you are coming home from college with a load of laundry. Only to then repeat the lengthy process in reverse as you leave and hope there’s not a medical emergency as you do so.
Wife: “Honey, I’m going into labor! We gotta go!”
Husband: “Ok sweetie! Here are your tights, jeans, and coveralls. Have you seen my third shirt and other socks? I know I put our gloves somewhere over here.”
Wife: “OMG I’m crowning, hurry!”
Husband: “Hold on, Pushy! I need to get my beanie on; it’s cold out there…”
Another reason I don’t like wearing a bunch of clothes is that it easily hides the fact that you haven’t worked out since early autumn and you have been enjoying the holiday meals a little too much. In the cold months I can just throw on a billowy hoodie and cram 4 more brownies down my gullet with no ounce of shame or humiliation. But in the summer, I know I will feel shame when I go swimming or hit the clubs wearing that cute tank that shows my midriff. Nothing motivates me more than when I’m at a resort and see a 20-something dude rip off his shirt on the beach and flash his six pack abs. I look down at myself sitting on a fold-out chair, which is our most vulnerable position when examining for fat, and notice that band of lard around my waist that used to not exist. I take another sip of my Modelo and whimper, “Wish I had my hoodie right now.”
Don’t think I forgot about you too ladies! I grew up with women, I have dated over 2 girls in my lifetime, and I am currently married to one. I know your little secrets! In the warm months, you gals have to lube up and shave down almost every inch of your bodies if you’re not a feminist. All because society says so. But to be honest, society is kind of right. No one has ever said, “Wow! Nice bush” before so…. But before you get all upset, just know; I also shave everything from tit to taint so I feel your pain. But before we get off on some tangent about how great I look naked, let’s get back to my point. You ladies don’t have to shave anything in the winter. Society falls back to the medieval times when it comes to bodily grooming. The jeans, cardigans, and ankle-length dresses got you covered, pardon the pun. You could look like an Armenian man down there and no one would know about it. Well I for one say nay!
Winter, you have made so many things miserable for me that I just felt as though I had to voice my displeasure. No longer should we have to drive 18 MPH on the highway because you decided it was a good time to sleet. No more should we have to see our breath steam and think, “I hope that doesn’t stink.” No longer should we feel emasculated just because our body is trying to prevent frostbite to the tiniest of our extremities. No longer should avocados be $1.50 each in the off-season. I am formally requesting that you take your low pressure systems and bugger off into Canada where those weirdoes like you! Now if you’ll excuse me, I just found a full bottle of lotion in my cabinet and I have some (eh-hem) extremity-warming to do.