I’m coping with winter.
I rarely have to drive in the snow anymore, living in Davis Square as I do. But this past Saturday I had to give a friend a ride home while the white stuff was still falling. So I brushed off the few inches that had accumulated so far, backed over an ankle-high berm, and whushed cautiously up the snowy length of Mass Ave. The impending winter storm warning kept most drivers off the streets, so I made it through without incident.
Weather had threatened to postpone the intermittent Mutants and Masterminds game, but I looked out the window on Sunday morning and decided folks could still make it over. “Only four inches or so,” I said. “Eminently drivable.” And of course I couldn’t cloister myself indoors after insisting that people drive to visit me. Not when there’s 24 to be watched, anyway.
My car doesn’t take well to cold weather. The doors tend to stick in the ice. The driver’s side handle has always been particularly tricky, ever since I ripped it off trying to open my frozen car three years ago. I have to crank the defrost particularly high to get anything done. And if I bring any amount of snow into the car with me, or if the interior windows froze over in the night and thaw as I drive, the ambient moisture does something to the CD player. It skips or stops with no recourse.
But I have to resist the tendency to turtle up, especially while living alone. And if I’m going to pay this much to insure my car, I might as well use it once in a while.