This is where I am now. To work to home, to work to home. Achy but not sick. Busy but not engaged. Not tired of winter, exactly, but tired of the accoutrements: the frequent changing of clothes; the salt and sand tracked into the house; the getting up in the dark and coming home in the dark; the nuisance snowfalls, which have been almost constant--an inch here, two inches there, not enough to shovel, just enough, always, to make everything slick.
OK, maybe I am tired of winter.
Going away somewhere warm is not the answer. I find it depressing to spend five days in sun and warmth, T-shirts and sandals, only to return to cold and dark for months to come. It's almost cruel. Better to just tough it out. Besides, we can't go anywhere because of Boscoe and his insulin routine.
(We changed his food yesterday. He ate ravenously last night. This morning: Picky again. It required two doses of chicken broth and a wee bit of leftover spaghetti stirred in to get him to eat. It's as though he has turned into a cat.)
I know what the cure is for the winter doldrums: Get up, get moving, get out of the house.
Breathe that sharp air. Get your feet wet. Let your nose run. (This is what the backs of mittens are for.) Doug bought snowshoes. We went out on Saturday, in the cold bright sunshine. It made all the difference.