>It is winter here in Canada. And with winter comes a multitude of things. Winter is cold. Winter is gross. Winter is generally irritating if you drive a vehicle. But winter is pretty (I’ll give it that much).
I can usually handle the cold. Wait, this is a giant lie. I am constantly cold even in the summer, and winter just puts me over the edge. But it doesn’t freak me out. I have accepted the fact that I am always cold. I have invested in an electric blanket, we own several fireplaces, I wear fuzzy socks, I use a Snuggie and I usually have a human furnace hanging around who is happy to sit on my feet. I can handle the cold.
I have also accepted the fact that owning a vehicle in the winter is irritating. The brushing off of snow, always seeming to be low on wiper fluid, the ice cold steering wheel and the slip sliding about the road. Yesterday morning my brand new baby even had a wee bit of difficulty starting right away (sitting all weekend in minus 23 degrees Celsius will do that to you, I guess). It’s irritating. But I can handle it.
But then there is the worst part of winter. The part that I have difficulties even writing about. The part that makes me yell and complain and carry on and make really awful faces. The worst part of winter happens when I go to get dressed for outside. I put on my hat. I put on my scarf. I zip up my coat. I put on my boots. I go to tie up my boots and encounter the evilest of all evil winter things.
WET BOOT LACES.
I yell, I complain, I grunt, I do a “ew this is gross” dance. I cannot handle wet boot laces. This is the part of winter that puts me over the edge. I must clarify. If I have been outside in the snow and my laces are wet, I am not bothered by it. Newly wet laces are acceptable. It’s the ones that have sat in the dirty puddle of boot tray sin that send me over the edge. The dirty snow water has been soaking its evil throughout the laces just for me to grab and coat my hands in disgusting. I don’t like the feeling of it. I don’t like the smell of it. I don’t like the way the water shoots out of the soaked laces and hits me in the face. It makes me want to move far away to a magical land where sopping wet boot laces don’t exist.
The other day I said something mildly insulting to my mother and her retort: “Watch it or I’ll make your boot laces wet!” This is such a problem for me that it can now be used against me. I admit that I have a problem. A rather weird problem, too. I have tried tucking my laces into my boots, but somehow they still escape to hang out in a puddle. I need help. Probably more than I’m willing to admit. But I still need help.
How do I fix this winter-long problem?