Itâ€™s cold out today. Cold yesterday. Even colder today.
OK, Iâ€™m not sure if itâ€™s colder today. I couldnâ€™t find yesterdayâ€™s high temperature last night on the one weather website I looked at. Maybe Iâ€™m lazy, or maybe Iâ€™m just inept. Iâ€™m betting itâ€™s a combination of the two.
One way or the other, my point stands: Itâ€™s cold today and I donâ€™t like it.
Iâ€™m making a stand against winter this season. Every year, about this same time, Old Man Winter comes strolling onto the meteorological scene and starts sticking his icy, liver-spotted tendrils into our normally warm and cheerful lives.
Some days clouds blot out the happy sun and freezing flakes pour maliciously from the heavens. Other days biting wind rips through the last, sad-looking leaves and drives icy spikes into our sensitive eyes.
Walking to class ceases to be a pleasant experience. Gone are the many squirrels and songbirds that grace our sidewalk scenery. Patches of ice appear randomly and threaten to topple me as I walk, and those same patches are twice as dangerous as I try to weave illegally through pedestrians on the Plaza.
Everything hurts more in the cold too. The ground is harder and falling hurts more. My bike pedals seem to catch my shins more often. The doorknobs sting.
The added pain of winter is nothing compared to the incessant wet pant legs that plague my spring semesters, though.
I hate wet pant legs. I hate wet pant legs more than I hate the statistics class Iâ€™ve tried to take twice. I hate wet pant legs more than I hate centipedes.
I hate them more than trustafarians, more than 3.2 beer, more than Nickelback, more than shaking hands with sick people, more than my girlfriendâ€™s cat, more than fake wood and more than sticking my face in a fan.
Seriously, though, I donâ€™t understand how people manage to sit through a class with wet pant legs. I canâ€™t do it. Every time it snows or every time snow melts, I canâ€™t concentrate on anything but how uncomfortable I am sitting in class.
There are a few bad solutions to this problem that Iâ€™m aware of:
First, I can wear gym shorts in blizzard weather. This makes me look stupid.
Second, I can roll up my pant legs. This also makes me look stupid.
Third, I can refuse to leave my apartment. Instead of making me look stupid, this just makes me stupid. Since appearances matter more than anything else in our world, I typically choose this option.
The worst part of winter is the Stockholm Syndrome that comes with it. Each year Old Man Winter takes me hostage, freezes me solid, makes me slip on the way to class and tortures me with wet pant legs.
Yet, every year I find myself looking forward to his company.
Come September, I start pulling out my snowboarding equipment. As the first flakes fall, I wonder which ski pass to buy. I like the dark, I tell myself, and, tapping into my feminine side, I tell myself I like winter clothes. This winter will be fun and exciting, I say.
And then spring rolls around and thaws my screwy perception.
I realize Iâ€™ve spent five months in a cold, dark nest, surrounded by twisted blankets, used tissues and smelly slippers. Iâ€™ve missed a half semesterâ€˜s worth of classes and Iâ€™ve only been snowboarding twice.
As I emerge into the light I look like a Chilean miner: dirty and unshaven, squinting into the sun, dazzled by the terrestrial world Iâ€™ve been locked away from for far too long.
So this year Iâ€™m making a stand.
Winter is coming and I canâ€™t do anything about that. But this year I wonâ€™t be a hostage. I wonâ€™t stand by idly and let the Old Man wreak his wintery havoc. Iâ€™m going to stand proudly against winterâ€™s wind and snow and ice and wet. This winter will be different.
Meh, who am I kidding. Itâ€™s cold outside.
_Managing Editor Jim Sojourner is a senior journalism major. His column appears Tuesdays in the Collegian. Letters and feedback can be sent to email@example.com. _