So this has been an unusual winter.
And not just because we packed up and moved to Bemidji at the start of it. Though, admittedly, that was plenty unusual.
No, I'm talking about winter itself. This has been — as we have been assured by mail carriers and grocery store clerks and that table of retired men at the local Dunn Bros. — an unusually frigid and snow-laden season. Even for Bemidji.
OK, so there was that one woman at the grocery store, the one looking at the chopped salads, who said, "Well, I don't know that it's THAT unusual ...." when I told her we'd just moved to Bemidji, and couldn't believe we'd moved during this unprecedented winter.
But clearly she's on drugs.
I mean you only have to look out our windows to see just how buried we are out here. Or walk out our front door and past the four-foot snow tunnel lining our sidewalk.
I've been doing a lot less walking out the front door, though, and a lot more looking out the windows.
The joy and the curse of working from home is that you don't really need to leave if you don't want to.
I've always been someone who's wanted to leave — spending mornings working from a coffee shop or meeting friends for lunch or taking long evening walks with a neighbor to break up the monotony of living and working from the same 2,000 or so square feet.
But this winter — our first winter "up north" — I've jumped headfirst into the the same 2,000 or so square feet. I've been in full-on hibernation mode, Reader-friends. I wear thick wool slippers and sherpa-lined sweatpants below my Zoom-appropriate sweaters. I have a fleece blanket at the ready in literally every room with a seat. And despite working a full-time job AND a part-time job, I've never watched so much TV in my life.
Also, I do not exaggerate when I tell you that I can go — without even realizing it — a full five days without leaving our front door.
I don't even feel guilty. As I see it, there could be worse coping mechanisms than hibernation when faced with a couple months' worth of subzero temps.
And it's not like I haven't had some adventure. Jay and I did escape to Arizona to visit my parents in early February. We spent a few balmy days in Rochester. And I recently started riding my blue saucer sled down our 900-foot driveway when it's time to retrieve the mail.
Also, today I brought a box of my poop to UPS.
And if that's not a day shaker-upper, then I don't know what is.
It was, as I'm sure you've guessed — as I hope you've guessed — my Cologuard test. Now that I'm 50 (it is STILL so weird to type that), it was either this or a colonoscopy. And I figured that pooping in a box would be the better option.
But as I carried that box out to my car this afternoon, I thought maybe I would've preferred the colonoscopy. Because now I had to walk into my local UPS store with a smile and a box of poop — like it's not the weirdest, most awkward package anyone could voluntarily send through the mail.
As I sat in the UPS parking lot, steeling myself to go in, I thought about what I'd say if things got weird. Mostly, I figured I'd pin it on Jay.
"Do you want insurance for this?" I imagined the clerk saying while gazing uncomfortably at the box, reluctant to take it from my hands.
"Oh, I don't know," I'd answer, holding it out with feigned innocence. "I'm dropping it off for my husband. I don't even know what's in there."
Turns out I didn't need to do that.
When I walked in the lobby, the lone person in the room — a UPS-er doing some paperwork in the corner — glanced my way briefly before saying, "Just leave it on the counter. It's prepaid."
Clearly not her first Cologuard rodeo.
But still. Not something I'm excited to repeat anytime soon. There's gotta be easier ways to add adventure to my days.
And not just because we packed up and moved to Bemidji at the start of it. Though, admittedly, that was plenty unusual.
No, I'm talking about winter itself. This has been — as we have been assured by mail carriers and grocery store clerks and that table of retired men at the local Dunn Bros. — an unusually frigid and snow-laden season. Even for Bemidji.
OK, so there was that one woman at the grocery store, the one looking at the chopped salads, who said, "Well, I don't know that it's THAT unusual ...." when I told her we'd just moved to Bemidji, and couldn't believe we'd moved during this unprecedented winter.
But clearly she's on drugs.
I mean you only have to look out our windows to see just how buried we are out here. Or walk out our front door and past the four-foot snow tunnel lining our sidewalk.
I've been doing a lot less walking out the front door, though, and a lot more looking out the windows.
The joy and the curse of working from home is that you don't really need to leave if you don't want to.
I've always been someone who's wanted to leave — spending mornings working from a coffee shop or meeting friends for lunch or taking long evening walks with a neighbor to break up the monotony of living and working from the same 2,000 or so square feet.
But this winter — our first winter "up north" — I've jumped headfirst into the the same 2,000 or so square feet. I've been in full-on hibernation mode, Reader-friends. I wear thick wool slippers and sherpa-lined sweatpants below my Zoom-appropriate sweaters. I have a fleece blanket at the ready in literally every room with a seat. And despite working a full-time job AND a part-time job, I've never watched so much TV in my life.
Also, I do not exaggerate when I tell you that I can go — without even realizing it — a full five days without leaving our front door.
I don't even feel guilty. As I see it, there could be worse coping mechanisms than hibernation when faced with a couple months' worth of subzero temps.
And it's not like I haven't had some adventure. Jay and I did escape to Arizona to visit my parents in early February. We spent a few balmy days in Rochester. And I recently started riding my blue saucer sled down our 900-foot driveway when it's time to retrieve the mail.
Also, today I brought a box of my poop to UPS.
And if that's not a day shaker-upper, then I don't know what is.
It was, as I'm sure you've guessed — as I hope you've guessed — my Cologuard test. Now that I'm 50 (it is STILL so weird to type that), it was either this or a colonoscopy. And I figured that pooping in a box would be the better option.
But as I carried that box out to my car this afternoon, I thought maybe I would've preferred the colonoscopy. Because now I had to walk into my local UPS store with a smile and a box of poop — like it's not the weirdest, most awkward package anyone could voluntarily send through the mail.
As I sat in the UPS parking lot, steeling myself to go in, I thought about what I'd say if things got weird. Mostly, I figured I'd pin it on Jay.
"Do you want insurance for this?" I imagined the clerk saying while gazing uncomfortably at the box, reluctant to take it from my hands.
"Oh, I don't know," I'd answer, holding it out with feigned innocence. "I'm dropping it off for my husband. I don't even know what's in there."
Turns out I didn't need to do that.
When I walked in the lobby, the lone person in the room — a UPS-er doing some paperwork in the corner — glanced my way briefly before saying, "Just leave it on the counter. It's prepaid."
Clearly not her first Cologuard rodeo.
But still. Not something I'm excited to repeat anytime soon. There's gotta be easier ways to add adventure to my days.