Wake up. You’ve got to get into your car and go to the place. But it’s cold outside. And you’re running late. Maybe you should warm up the car. Of course you should warm up the car. 

You throw a jacket on over your pajamas, but you don’t zip it up. You slip boots onto your bare feet, but you don’t tie them. You look at your gloves and decide to leave them be. You’re running late, after all, and who has time to put on gloves? 

Not you. 

Fishing around in your pocket for some car keys, you yank open the door and step outside and OH GOD OH GOD IT’S COLD OH GOD. The air is like ice in the form of air. It’s too cold for good metaphors. 

And/or similes.

Your body is racked with shivers. You shove your hands into your coat pockets as you totter across the driveway, skipping over the icy patches. Your foot slips a few inches, and every muscle in your body tenses into rigid steel. But you stay upright. And you keep walking.

Later tonight, you’ll feel a dull ache in your lower back, but you’ll have no idea why. 

”

Did I mention how cold the metal car handle was? IT WAS VERY COLD.

The skin on your fingers stuck to it a little bit. Those same fingers now clutch your car keys. You bend over and lean into the vehicle. As if stabbing the man who done you wrong, you jam the biggest key into the ignition. And twist. 

MIKE PAULUS

There. It’s your car. It’s covered in snow from the other night. Because you never brushed it off. Because why brush it off when there’s such quality television programming available inside your very warm house? This is why.

Over the last few days, the snow has transformed itself. Now, it is crust. The crust of anguish. The crust of torment. The crust of regret.

Here, early in the morning, the snow on your car will not go gentle into that good night. 

It is too cold for applicable literary references. 

Simply put, the snow on your car will be difficult to remove by your hands alone. So you unlock the door and pull it open. Snow falls onto your seat. Where you sit. You hastily brush it off. 

Did I mention how cold the metal car handle was? It was very cold. The skin on your fingers stuck to it a little bit. Those same fingers now clutch your car keys. You bend over and lean into the vehicle. 

As if stabbing the man who done you wrong, you jam the biggest key into the ignition. And twist. 

After a few complaints, the car roars to life. You immediately reach over and crank the appropriate knob. You crank it all the way over to … defrost. 

This was your plan all along. Defrost. You slam the door shut and stumble back to the house. This is out of your hands now. 

The car must heal itself.

As your heater gets to work outside, you get to work inside. You shower. You dress. You grab your stuff. 

Breakfast is not for you. Who has time for breakfast? Who even eats breakfast? The very young and the very old. Surely not the people who are running late.

You step back outside and OH GOD …I t’s not as bad as before. It’s a little better. Maybe the shower warmed you up. 

You lock the door and spin around to see your car.  Oh no.

Nothing has changed. The crusty snow is too much. It would take all day for your car to melt through its icy bonds. After all this, it is up to you. 

You open the car door. Snow falls onto your seat. Where you sit. You throw your stuff inside and grab the scraper. And you get to work. 

You brush. You scrape. You chip away. You get snow in your sleeves. You get snow in your boots. You do what needs to be done.

You flop down into the driver’s seat. Sweaty. It’s roasting hot inside your car.  You unzip your jacket and buckle up. 

The day has just begun.