It comes down to bad timing.
For five days, I've been suffering a nasty head cold, which kept me in bed for three days, had me suffer a day at work, where I literally blew through half a box of tissues (and I'm using literally correctly), and I'm back at home today, working in my pajamas, wrapped in a red fleece blanket.
It is Valentine's Day, after all.
Last night seemed to be the height of this week of misery, when, on a trip to Costco, Lori, driving our car that still seems newish to us, was hit from behind by a young man in an older Jaguar, causing damage to the rear bumper, but more importantly, wrenching our youngest daughter's back and resulting in a trip to CHEO.
She's fine, with no worse than the equivalent of a minor whiplash, but to her lower back. A couple of days of taking it easy will make her as good as ever.
So, today, as you can imagine, is stressful at the Brownfoot home. On top of yet another snow storm, dumping heaps of white stuff on our driveway, where we have little room to put it because the cold temperatures have prevented any significant melting of the accumulation that has already fallen.
Today is the start of WinterBrewed, the craft-beer festival of Winterlude. I am supposed to be the photographer for the event, but here I am, head blocked such that my ears click and sometimes squeak. Even if I could gather the energy to haul myself and my camera to the venue, I'm too sick to drink any beer.
I don't even have a craving for beer, and I haven't touched any since Sunday. I'm that sick.
And today is Valentine's Day.
I look out the window, see the cold grip of winter, still firmly holding onto our city, and the last thing I think of is love.
Can we move this Hallmark holiday? Can we put it somewhere in May, when everything blooms, when we shed our coats and boots, and want to be outdoors? When our winter woes are behind us?