About this time every year we Iowans decide that the winter has dragged on long enough and pulled us kicking and screaming through its frosty hallways far too many times to be useful anymore. This usually leads to bitching about the weather at every opportunity until our repertoire resembles that of an accomplished debate team minus the hot blond that will argue your ass to the ground and then strip for your amusement. Gone is the gossip about who is living with whom or what mind-numbingly stupid thing the city is doing with our tax money this year and in its place is a healthy dose of bellyaching with the occasional old-timer rant about how today’s youth has it so easy thrown in for spiciness and flavor.

I like to think that I’m rather accepting of the area of the country in which I live and its weather eccentricities, but on the whole I, too, find myself participating in these scathing attacks against Old Man Winter. It’s not that I don’t enjoy the winter — I do. I simply disagree with its tactics and efforts to make even the most simplest of operations outside a complete nightmare to navigate. One doth not understand the agony of winter until you have attempted to safely transport a 3-month-old in a blizzard.

This is compounded by the fact that this year I must make a 42 minute drive to work each way, either by tracing a county blacktop as it winds through the farmland wilderness or via a roundabout way on state highway and Interstate, the latter of which takes me nearly an hour but is by far the preferable in the case of crappy roads. This happens far, far more often than need be, as my more scenic and shorter route takes me through three counties, none of which have mastered the art of running a snowplow. Considering the simplicity of the machine, akin to a snow shovel welded to the bumper of a Jetta, you would really assume that they could make a significant dent in the crystallized water population. This is not the case, however; folks, your tax dollars at work.

So the other day, after Iowa had been calmly slammed to the mat by Mother Nature with near on a foot of white fluffy headache, I trekked northeasterly along the highways to my workplace. After making it to the Interstate and shooting along for some time, I entered a whiteout doing about 45mph or so. When I emerged, the scene before me would have sent sane men scampering for the treetops — three semi trucks side-by-side in front of me, blocking both lanes. Apparently one was already mostly on the side of the highway, another had been passing him, and yet another was trying to speed past on the left.

This was not good.

Imagine the further dropping of my heart as I looked into my rearview mirror and saw two more semis barreling down behind me in both lanes. Suddenly, sitting there in my little econobox, I felt cold, tiny, and very alone.

The thoughts that ravaged (quickly) through my head were storms of expletives, silent urgings to light fires underneath the asses of my angels, and wondering if my underwear would pass my mother’s emergency preparatory test. I started the oh-so-important self-debate of whether I should head for the ditch and turn my car into a four-wheeled flying sleigh from hell or allow the airbags to deploy turning me into a very safe, very snug, and very tenderized chunk of sirloin.

Fortunately for me, the semis sorted themselves out somehow without leaving pieces strewn across the highway and I was able to avoid becoming axle fodder for that day. My morning this enbrightened, I continued onwards to work where I found great solitude in not being behind a wheel for many hours.

Many people have said that if you don’t like the weather here in Iowa, just stick around for the next 5 minutes, but I’d like to cordially add that if you’re not into intramural dodgeball involving vehicular transport, you might consider staying tucked into your beach blanket and reading Cosmo. It is by far the less stressful of the two.