We are on Day 3 of Snowpocolpse/Snowmageddon/Snowtastrophe 2010. The snow stopped falling a day ago, but the streets remain sloppy, and the plow truck that broke down on Saturday morning outside the house is still stuck in the middle of the street. I think it has given up its will to live. Come springtime we will paint the doors a cheery fuscia and pull out the headlights, using the empty holes to grow dahlias. We will up-turn the plow itself and start a community garden. It will be beautiful and serve bounty to the neighborhood.
For our own curiosity and sanity’s sake, we have managed to get out of the house a couple of times. Curiosity because we wanted to see how other streets were faring (so-so), and sanity because you can only do so many hot laps around the apartment without banging your shin on the stereo speakers and/or someone’s head.
It is here I admit that I was ill-prepared for the heavy snow we currently endure. Oh, I was prepared in many essential ways: food, laptop, booze, reading materials, and crossword puzzles. I have two coats, a hat, gloves, a scarf. But I do not, and have not, owned snow boots in approximately 24 years. I just…haven’t. And since living out here in DC, the thought hadn’t even crossed my mind to purchase snow boots until recently, and that’s only because I’ve got BIG PLANS! for a trip to Alaska in March to visit my friend, Captain Klein.
And yet I never got around to it.
And of course I really could have used them over the past few days.
But I soldier on! A measly lack of snow boots was not going to stop me from exploring the neighborhood in these snowpocolypctic times, and more importantly it was not going to stop me from hurling myself over the porch railing and into the sweet, sweet fresh air of freedom. Damn those walls that try to contain me! I will not be penned in!
I am nothing if not innovative. I dug deep into my roots, into the memories of the snowy tundra of the Midwest, remembering the ache of icy feet, miserably slogging around in cold, wet shoes. I needed my freedom, I needed to inhale the crisp smell of that which had been packed and plowed and sledded and skated over, but I did not need to catch my death of pneumonia or even spend any time complaining about how uncomfortable my fucking feet were. I dug deeper into my memories and inspiration sauntered forth. Stealing into the pantry I plucked out two plastic grocery bags, and happily sat down to ready my feet for their adventure outside the confines of home.
Do not underestimate the power of the baggie bootie.
It’s entirely too simple of a solution for its own good. It is so good that you think there is no possible way it can even work. Oh, that it does. For over an hour we trekked and slid and toddled our way through the streets, through banks of snow and barely-blazed trails, sinking up to our knees through weak spots of piled snow.
And when I returned home, my feet were dry. And warm. A bit sweaty, even.
Plastic-wrapping your foot will do that, I guess.
No matter. What matters is we breathed in deep the air and sunshine that will eventually eliminate the snowy barriers from our lives. And my feet stayed warm.
And there is still a plentiful amount of gin in the liquor cabinet.