I must find something to make this winter tolerable. It will be 50 today, something of a reprieve, but let’s not break out the bikinis just yet. The temperature will drop again next week, say my trusted sources at NBC4, and I will return to the mode of not wanting to grocery shop, not wanting to get the mail from the lobby, not wanting to leave the house. This is the time of year that stepping in water in my stocking feet sends me into a blind rage, as does taking a shower with the bathroom door open. It doesn’t help that the fireplace flue won’t stay closed and that my windows feel open even when I’ve shut them with all my might. The cats sit in front of the space heater and I spend most time inside under covers. Two comforters, to be exact. I’ve sacrificed the Snuggie my mother gave me to lessen the draft under the living room window.

This is not my season; it never has been. When I was living in the New Jersey motherland, winters were vicious. The days seemed incredibly short, even to a high school girl whose trigonometry homework and student government notes were clearly done inside. I’m not sure what gripped me in those days — maybe it was that elusive thing called motivation? – but I decided to do something to make myself happier until spring arrived again, bringing with it shorts and blonder hair. I started to ski with the high school club. Every Friday night three buses would make the trek to a resort in Pennsylvania. It was not a pleasant experience to start. For a relatively well-liked girl I was also incredibly awkward at those things others took for granted. My anxiety did nothing to help this. On my first outing, I prepped for the bunny slope 45 minutes out, putting on full snowsuit and gloves and jacket zipped up over my chin. It’s a wonder I ever went to prom.

But I got more comfortable. And I started to love it. By the end of my second season, I was whipping down the wee slopes of the northeast with relative ease, navigating the icy trails and taking on everything but the black diamonds. Well, I attempted those too, but ended up removing my skis and sitting on them the rest of the way down. I do value an intact spine, after all. On these trips, I surprised even myself by making some of my best high school memories. On one of my first runs, an experienced friend took my poles away and pushed me down the slope, forcing me to figure out quickly what the hell I was doing. I smoked my first cigarette on the fourth floor of the lodge, a Camel Light, next to a closed food station and far out of chaperone reach. On a particularly icy night, I reached speeds I couldn’t control, and laughed out loud as I relinquished control to the universe.

Time for me to find my winter laughter again.