If the calculations carved into the walls of my house-shaped prison are correct, today is Feb. 2: Groundhog Day. How appropriate then, that today should be just like the previous! The snow has stopped falling from the heavens, but there’s still little hope of it melting or of impending rescue. (See Day 1 here)
I slept reasonably well last night, all huddled up in blankets and comforters I miraculously found hiding in the hall closet/survival shelter. The only disruption came at around 2 a.m., when I heard what I assume to be the grunts and groans of the Abominable Snow Monster traipsing through my backyard. The snow kept on coming down though, so his footprints were nowhere to be seen come sun-up. Or it could have been my own snoring. We’ll never know.
My link with the outside world all-but-completely severed, I’m losing my connection to my culture and humanity. I no longer remember my real name. Here, in the midst of the post-Snowpocalyptic snowscape I now call home, I’m known simply as Thundersnow.
With snow up past my knees, I managed to scrape the driveway clean this morning, all the way to the unplowed street. The temp is 13 degrees with a wind chill of -3. Despite the temps, I still worked up quite a sweat and burned off my heaping bowl of S’mores cereal (it’s part of a balanced breakfast). This snow-removal achievement led to a brief feeling of euphoria that all was in fact not lost. My hopes were immediately dashed however, when a snowplow drove by piling an entire street’s worth of cold, muddy slush in my way. This must be how shipwreck victims feel when a search plane flies overhead, yet they remain unseen. If I haven’t been rescued by tomorrow, I’ll start spelling H-E-L-P in large rocks in my back yard.
I read an article this morning describing the wrong way to shovel your driveway. In addition to proper technique, it said you shouldn’t drink a cup of coffee or hot chocolate before hand, because it will increase your heart rate, thus increasing the risk of overexertion (apparently 1,200 die shoveling snow each year in the U.S.). Luckily, I don’t drink coffee, and simply drank a Diet Dr Pepper instead. Crisis: averted.
It’s been a full 48 hours since the mailman has come by. This is the surest sign yet that all is not well with the world. Is a life without daily piles of junk mail and credit card applications a life worth living? More importantly, I’m two postcards behind in my daily dispatches to Nashville.
Despite the isolation and boredom, my spirits are still surprisingly high. This kinda worries me. They say that in the latter stages of hypothermia, the victims stop feeling cold and instead feel a curious warmth as their body shuts down. I wonder if I’m experiencing the mental equivalent. Other symptoms of mental hypothermia (a condition I just discovered): an unnatural desire to go back to work, the passionate belief someone should totally draw an editorial cartoon depicting the President as the Obama-nable Snow Monster and wondering why the heck the new Glee episode is scheduled for Sunday after the big game, instead of 3 p.m. Wednesday when I need it. And a runny nose.
If this snow never melts and we never seen each other again, stay warm and have a Happy Groundhog Day!