It's not me, it's you.

Dear Winter

This may be the hardest letter I ever have to write. [Actually it won't, but I want you to feel I have given the situation and my feelings an appropriate investment of emotion so that you understand I am serious about my decision.]

We have to break up.

Things started out so well - a few beautiful mornings with a delicious chill in the air, stars of frost decorating the kitchen window, the gorgeous outline of bare trees on the skyline as the sun set at five o'clock. I'll admit it, I was completely charmed.

I really thought I was in it for the long haul, right to the end.

Then of course there was that giddy holiday period, with emotions and sentimentality running high.  The gifts, the egg nog, the cozy fires.  Who wouldn't be in love?

As the hangover of the holidays faded and January dawned, I resolved to love you more.  I resolved to work harder, try and see the good, offer more understanding of your grey slushiness and steely skies.  I mean, we all have off days, right?

I will say, you have really worked hard in recent weeks.  This whole 'snow storm' look really works for you:  the magical dusting on all the pine trees, the silent stillness of a snowy night,  the sparkling brilliance of an untouched yard of white crystals. We both know how important looks are to me.  But already the stunning ensemble of white-on-white is starting to get grubby at the edges, and the grey sweatpant slush is creeping in all around.

Soon all the snow will melt, and we'll be left with the grim remnants piled in blackish mounds in the Target parking lot, reminding me of all that I have come to resent about you.

I am tired of your short days and long nights.  I am tired of your bitterly cold mornings that require two layers of clothing for each mile run.  I grow weary of your wan sunsets, of your refusal to let the sun shine with any warmth, of your insistence that "frozen mud is the new grass".

I am sick. to. death. of your germs.  Of the mounds of tissues all around my house, of the runny noses ear infections and tummy bugs that lay in wait on every door knob.  The bacteria that spread like wildfire through the house because we're all stuck inside.

I'm done.  I am so over you.  You, your slush, your darkness and your germs can pack your bags and head off to the Southern Hemisphere.  I don't want to see you even one more day.  And don't try to wow me with any of that blizzard stuff again.  It won't work, you and your twelve inches.  Bah.

Really.  It's not me, it's YOU.

Wishing you all the best,
Kirsten