Who was it who wrote the song, “They’re writing songs of love, but not for me?”  That line has transmogrified into “They’re writing songs of spring, but not for me.”   I’m sitting here watching it snow, waiting for more icicles to form and threaten Lord knows what to my roof and walls.  I’m dressed in layers inside the house.  Layers and to add to them, there are the afghans and blankets that I use to keep warm while watching TV.  The weather is miserable or is it me?

Wasn’t it two days ago that the temperature reached 70 degrees? Didn’t I open my windows and luxuriate in the warm breeze that moved my sheers in soft undulating movement?  And today?  The vernal equinox has passed and I heard the geese singing their north flying songs telling me that the seasons are changing, but right now, it does seem that the change is in reverse.  It wouldn’t surprise me to see the geese calling an Uber to take them back south.   I really need spring.  I dream of summer.

I’ve been inside for so long that going out to get the mail is a vacation.  My ability to endure discomfort is gone.  Stuff that was ordinarily off-putting is now a monumental pain.  Talk about side effects to the vaccine –  the pandemic isolation has side effects too. The list is long and important and I can’t ignore these things.

But in my house, the me that was is not the me that is.  First of all, there is more of me.   Before I liked to cook, sort of, and did my bit daily because it had to be done.  Now, cooking is what I do because I can’t get outside.   And then I eat what I cook.  Innovative experiences, explorations and such  have been transformed into food, mostly stuff that is calorie-laden and calling seductively to me.   It has gotten to the point that ordering in a bunch of wings or having my spouse bring in some Kentucky Fried is exciting.  Sad.

Secondly, I’ve become very picky about how things look.  I must vacuum, sweep or mop every day.  If there are spots on the stove, they have to be removed.  The sink must always be empty.  And crumbs by the toaster?  Unacceptable!  How did I function before when these things were not tops on my daily lists?  Did my house look like a freshman boys’ dorm?

Thirdly, while I agonize over my housekeeping, my personal appearance has gone down the tubes.  Not that anyone would identify my particular grooming and sartorial choices as anything special.  I mean who is going to see me?  My spouse?  The cats?  Sure, I can clean up for a Zoom session, but those don’t happen that often and when it’s snowing, etc. and I have to make a run to the store, I wear a hat and a mask. Underneath is the truth that no one should see.

At our stage in life, the more energetic activities that would bring us outside are limited to shoveling light snow and turning on the snow blower.   More specifically, these activities are assigned to my spouse while I wait inside near a phone, just in case.

Last week I ordered crampons for my shoes so that I can get from my house to the car should the occasion ever arise where I might go somewhere.  It’s a sign of hope.