God, I hate this time of year.
The brightness and alcohol-soaked revelry of the holidays is gone. Snow is no longer “seasonal” and “fun” but a seemingly never-ending plague on the earth. Now all we’re left with is the long, cold, dark winter and a bunch of promises we made to ourselves last week that are designed to ruin our usual coping mechanisms for dealing with a long, cold, dark winter. No wonder we tend to give up on our resolutions so soon. When the weather is this miserable and with only 20 minutes of daylight, the only way to survive, mentally, if not physically, is to drink, smoke, eat fried butter dipped in lard and be rude to random people on the street.
Of course, this philosophy of mine is also why I’m destined to looked 70 when I hit my mid-30′s and get my ass kicked by someone’s Southie grandma.
But this year I decided to come to a compromise. This winter marks my one-year anniversary of moving to Boston and as such, I will continue drinking, smoking and eating sandwiches where the bread is replaced with fried chicken and instead have all my resolutions directed toward making me more of a Bostonian. Besides, it’s way past due for me to finally shed those pesky habits I formed growing up in Ohio and being a temporary Southerner for five years (like waiting to cross an eight-lane highway until there is no visible traffic barreling toward me).
So, for example, this year I fully intend to give up my parka, ski mask, scarf, gloves, snow boots and fluffy hat when it’s only 40 degrees and start wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, which, judging from my observations of the population at large, works for most winter weather situations barring sub-zero temperatures (and even then, it depends on the wind chill).
I will also get up and move to the other side of the train once I realize that the overwhelming smell of stale urine (or even fresh urine) is emanating from the hobo next to me, instead of toughing it out for fear of being rude and making the hobo “feel bad.”
In an effort to sound more native, I am giving up any and all “R” and “R”-adjacent sounds.
I will actually go see a live band and at least attempt to act like the last album I bought wasn’t in 1998.
Stop drinking like the wimpy mid-Westerner I am and start drinking like I don’t really care if I live.
Stop driving like the wimpy mid-Westerner I am and start driving like I don’t really care if I (or anyone in my near vicinity) lives.
Attend at least one professional sporting match in which muscular men move balls or other spherical objects with other elongated objects (including but not limited to their giant forearms) and avoid questions such as “what just happened?”
Learn what “wicked pissah” means and use it in a sentence at least once a week.
Finally switch my Texas driver’s license with a Massachusetts one so bartenders stop looking at me like I’m personally responsible for everything Rick Perry says.
And last, but not of least, come to terms with the fact that when meeting someone at a bar and their directions include “it’s just right down from the T” that generally means no less than 27 blocks.