Much like my juvenile attitude toward Christmas and birthdays, I have a child-like glee reserved for snow. It’s cold, it’s wet, I shouldn’t like it, but I still very much do.
So I was delighted when giant, fluffy clumps of flakes started falling from the sky at dusk. And then I went outside in my pajamas and (it turns out not-waterproof) slippers (and a coat and scarf) holding an umbrella to put my windshield wipers up, because I’m a grown up, technically. A little bit.
Spent the day cleaning and lounging and still not talking (though I didn’t mention it yesterday, my cold plus an evening of laughing and talking with friends resulted in me waking up without a voice. And today it’s still gone). The cats are freaking out a little. I often sing little songs to them, and now I’m not even telling them how pretty they are. Fitzy has taken to yowling and chattering at me in order to elicit a response. He is not interested in whispers. Except at dinner time.