I'm not outdoorsy. I like the kind of outside I can enjoy from the lawn chair in my yard. I like a nice brisk walk. I live in New England because of the seasons, but my preferences are spring and fall. I'll take "sweater weather" over either extreme.
I have friends who adore the winter. They can't wait to dig out their skis, skates, snowboards and sleds and head out into the snow. I went to college with guys who could tell you the exact snow amounts on any given weekend at any of New England's ski areas — of course they could also drink beer without opening the top of the can, but that's another story.
I'm just not one of those people who dives headlong into winter. My one attempt at skiing was a huge disaster, and that briefly put a great strain on my relationship with the man I eventually married. When we finally decided I needed a lesson, the best advice the instructor had for me was, "Never let your boyfriend teach you how to ski or drive." I'd say those are words to live by.
My idea of a perfect winter day is making a big pot of soup and curling up on the sofa with a good book. If I have to go to a ski area there had better be a roaring fire and a chair I can curl up in.
The trouble is, I have kids who love the outdoors. They find the snow delightful and, despite their decided lack of body fat, they do not seem to mind the cold. When it snows, I want to watch the pretty snowflakes swirl to the ground from inside the house. They want to go out in it. And they want me to go with them. Fearing that I will deprive them of valuable childhood memories — or that one day they will send the therapy bills to me — I reluctantly agree to participate in their winter antics.
I'm not really sure why, but I own all the required equipment to keep myself warm and toasty. I think I bought it for a cold weather vacation a few years back. When it is brutal outside we can layer up like the pros. I'm talking underwear, long underwear, a turtleneck, trousers, a big heavy sweater and wool socks. Top it off with snow pants, a parka, hats, gloves and boots.
The kids have on so many layers that they cannot put their arms at their sides. I also find I must be careful when dressing the toddler, to make sure he can still toddle along once he is suited up. If not, he will end up falling down in the snow to cries from his brothers of, "Man down!"
Once the kids are warmly attired, I get myself outfitted for our adventure in the snow. A quick check in the full-length mirror confirms that there is no way to look remotely attractive buried under all that gear. In fact, it's hard to determine if there's a human under all those layers. My face peeps out from under the hood of my parka, looking a bit pale. My hair is static-stricken and my neck is missing. It is not possible to bend at the waist — even a little. The great paradox of winter is that wearing that many layers of clothing makes it impossible to tie my boots.
Once everyone is suitably outfitted we head out into the snow. No amount of wind or wet seems to deter these young men from enjoying their time. There are snowmen to be built, tunnels to be dug, snowball fights to begin.
There will, of course, be the inevitable spill for me. I'll slip on unseen ice and fall on my — er — snow pants. The good news is, with all that clothing on you hardly notice the impact.
Ellen Mary Carr writes from her home in North Andover.
