The two middle aged lovers tramp through the snow, shoveling the drive, laughing in the glinting sunlight that plays upon the sparkling crust. Then one of them eyes the camera, shows a mischevious look and slowly forms a large snowball. Cut to the snowball flying through the air and smacking her lover square in the back. Startled, he stands up, turns and the next snowball pelts him in his manly chest.
She ducks under a bare bush, coyly pretending to hide from his fury, knowing of course that he is likely to return the snowballing favor when, "whomp!" Snowball smacks her on the tush.
She laughs uproariously and prances across the smooth surface... the fight begins. Snowballs fly, feet stomp through the snow, awkward limbs drag overly-clothed bodies toward each other in a dance-like movement. Cue slow motion and romantic music.
He throws; she ducks. She giggles. She throws. He takes one in the chops and mocks anger.
He charges, she darts but gets her foot stuck as it plunges through the crust.
He catches her by the wrist, pulls her toward him, plants a wet kiss on her mouth... and shoves a large snowball down the back of her jacket.
Wouldn't that have been nice?
No, instead this middle-aged couple stomped through what seemed like thirty feet of snow on a never-ending sloping drive contemplating how to shovel it without a snowblower. I began digging us out when Jon decided to ask the neighbor for his snowblower. Think Mike Mulligan and the steam shovel competition. (I did lose, drats.)
We shoveled and blew snow for nearly two hours until the daylight completely vanished and we still had snow left to shovel. Highlights included a shower of snow dumped on my head by my mischevious middle kids who pushed flakes off the little roof outside my bedroom window. Ha ha. I did get them back when I innocently asked them to come to the door. Ha HA!
I actually thought about how nice snow is, how great it was to be out of doors, how gorgeous the sunset is after a storm (brushed magenta across the sky with the bare-branches of trees against it) and what fun it is to be living in the midwest...
That is until two hours had passed and I was aching, in pain, tired and couldn't lift one more huge shovel full of the white stuff.
I entered the house hungry and tired and burst into tears. Is this what happens to people who run marathons? I think so. And I think this is why I don't run them.
But I do like snow... just don't really care much for shovels.
P.S. I should mention that I did manage to get that nice kiss out of my manly man in spite of not having a snowball fight.