I’m planning my next sick day.
Don’t tell my boss.
It’s not so much that I’ll be ill – in fact, the best “sick day” has no illness attached to it at all – but that I’ve reached the end of my winter tolerance and need something to look forward to aside from Swedish Meatball Monday at Macy’s or that weird guy that plays the recorder down by Target.
A sick day: nothing too extravagant, mind you.
I can see it now. I call in, early-like.
“Hello? Josh? Yeah, sorry to call so early, even if it is going straight to your voice mail. The thing is, I got an eye problem. Yeah, I just can’t see coming in to work today.” I pause dramatically, issue one dry cough. “I may have this same problem tomorrow. I’ll let ya know.”
It’s March, you see; and I am consumed with the fact that Minneapolis is a good 30 degrees colder than its average – and has been that way for quite some time.
I consider myself a tolerant woman, a hardworking woman, but I’m here to tell you that I’ve reached the end of my winter rope.
I’m not alone in this, of course. The good, semi-frozen people of the Great State of Minnesota, increasingly, walk about in a state of uncomprehending horror, a rictus like smile on chapped, red-cheeked faces.
We’re just a week or two from offering up a sacrifice of some sort. A nice wurst, perhaps, or a plate of fresh-from-the-oven lefsa.
Nothing too fancy.
I thought you should know.
I’m not a complaining sort. I think you know that about me.
But I’m sick of this winter.