Seasons

Talk about eye candy.

Don't get excited. I'm not referring to Bradley Cooper or someone my husband finds visually pleasing.

I even fell for IT the other day...What I'm swooning over is something inanimate, made even more enchanting by its rather compelling - albeit short-lived - appearance. 

What am I talking about, you ask? 

The answer is something we all seem to have very pronounced feelings about:  a hearty snowfall.

The reality is that, for me, once tree branches are covered with that white powdered stuff, I'm a goner. 

Thursday morning I laid in my bed for hours as the snow arrived, thrilled to watch this masterpiece in the making, like brush strokes on canvas. 

For once I told myself that there was nothing more pressing to do - not laundry, not going through endless papers, not doing the dishes - n o t h i n g - than to take advantage of what nature had to offer.

Florence would have been proud of me that I was able to sit back and enjoy the moment.  At 95 years old, she would have done the same thing, but I'm not sure she would've at 55.     

The spell was quickly broken - once the snow turned to ice - because I soon fell outside and then started worrying about everyone else getting hurt, other than Shea Doggy, who seemed fearless sliding all over the place.    

   

This morning, my girlfriend asked if I'd like to take our first walk of the season.  Suddenly I forgot about my love affair with the snow, as I quickly shifted to daydreaming about spring.    

Call me fickle, but now I find myself hoping I've had my last tango with Old Man Winter for many, many months. 

I can't wait to stop and smell the roses, for me and for my mamma.