I wanted to surf, but grew up a thousand miles from the nearest ocean. I wanted to be a synchronized swimmer, but the only guys who did it were these two. I wanted to play pro football, but my hair hurt when I took off the helmet. So I did other things. Things that a 12-year-old didn’t have to hitchhike a thousand miles to do. Things it was socially acceptable for guys to do. Things that didn’t hurt my hair.
It’s a lesson I’m trying desperately to embrace today, having at one time yesterday been promised more than a foot of snow only to awaken this morning to one inch of snow and three of sleet. Not exactly ideal conditions for getting the cross-country skis from the back of the gear closet. Skis I haven’t used in five years. Skis I was planning to spend the day on. In the foot or more of snow I was promised. That turned into an inch of snow and three inches of gritty, wet sleet.
Instead, maybe I’ll do some snow biking, like some of the folks at TriangleMTB are planning to do. Or maybe I’ll go for a snow run, though not as I’m guessing Josh Sutcliffe of Madison, N.C., might. Maybe we’ll just go for a nice neighborhood hike. I’d love to take a hike at Umstead, but since the 12 inches of fluffy powder I was promised turned out to be three inches of traffic-halting sleet, a hike out the front door is OK. Oops, there I go, letting a bad vibe seep in. This disappointing weather situation is no one’s fault. Stuff happens. I’ll deal with it.
Just not on cross-country skis.
The photo, btw, is on a ruler in one inch of snow and three inches of sleet on my back deck.