If you know me personally or only remotely, if you are a friend or foe, or someone I admire or detest, I think you might have the vague idea that I am not at all fond of winter. And I haven't exactly been quiet about it. I have spent numerous winters complaining about the cold and what it does to me. Words of praise rarely flow from my lips when the subject turns to winter. As much as I like the crisp mornings and clear breeze I will always be the glass-is-half-empty kind of person when it comes to this cold unforgiving season.
October is almost over as I write this, and the weather is gradually going downhill. But this year I am doing things differently. I am not going to grumble and whine about the cold. I will not write about how much I hate the cold mornings. You will not hear me complain about how my skin has become dry and brittle, how my hair clings to the comb, how my lips are continually in need of a lip balm and how my purchase of moisturisers and cold creams and oils has dramatically increased. You can rest assured that I will not bore you with tales of wardrobe emergencies, about how I hate wearing warm clothes and swathing myself with layers of clothing. I don't find it necessary to shout to the world about the irony of having to take hot baths because of the cold and about your skin drying up afterwards. I'm sure you are not interested in hearing how the whole world comes alive with static electricity and touching anything remotely metal gives you a mild electric shock. And regarding cold nights, I will not even come close to the subject. Nobody wants to listen to the same old story of creeping into cold beds late at night and trying to keep warm all by yourself. And going home to Mizoram and spending a freezing winter there is something I don't even want to think about.
Don't you worry, my dears, I am not going to tell winter tales. If you really want to know my opinion of winter and its shenanigans, here is something I wrote last winter To Winter and one more the year before here