By the time you read this, we’ll all be covered in sunblock and Speedos. But right now, I’m watching the Winter Olympics, where 2,800 world-class lunatics spent two weeks in Sochi proving that ice is exceptionally hard. Hey, they could have done that in South Carolina.
Wicked winter weather treated snow-phobic Carolinians to our own Olympics, which wasn’t much fun for the electric co-ops. But it was a learning experience for anyone who tried bobsledding down the driveway on her butt. One “Look, Ma, no brakes!” skid into the HOA mailbox was enough to keep me indoors until piña colada season. That’s the only frozen stuff that isn’t trying to kill you.
The storms also taught me a great deal about cat litter. Those insurance commercials that show a car hopelessly stuck in snow until actor J.K. Simmons pours litter under the rear tire convinced me to buy some for the upcoming ice storm. After sprinkling it all over my steps, I discovered that all cat litter is not created equal. The clay stuff I bought for $2 a bag can also be used to glue wings back on commercial jets. Just add ice water.
Once the sleet melted, I tried to sweep it off the steps, but the broom got stuck. I tried hosing it off, but that only reinforced the bond. Everywhere I turned, another pound of sludge had cemented itself to my shoes, car, rugs and dog’s paws. It even migrated over to my elderly neighbor’s perennially green plastic grass. He got suspicious and marched over to ask if I had any idea why his Astroturf turned gray. I pleaded the Fifth.
Growing up in the icy North, with our plows, shovels and snowsuits, we were ready for snow. We even had our own personal mountain—a 5-foot hill behind the school that was perfect for riding Flexible Flyers into the woods. Everything was fine until one kid managed to hit a tree and lose his spleen. Minutes later, our folks confiscated every sled, toboggan and garbage can lid in the neighborhood.
Which brings me to Sochi and the questions I ask every four years: Do ski jumpers have mothers? Who resuscitates them when their kids hit the ramp doing 60 mph to fly the length of a football field? Do they understand the term “avalanche?”
I’m happy to live in a sane region of the world, where Carolina mothers are 97 percent more likely to sign their babies up for T-ball than luge lessons. When I once caught my 7-year-old riding her bike without a helmet, I made her write a 1,000-word thesis on traumatic brain injury. After that, she became so terrified of essay writing, she tossed the helmet and swapped her bike for a gerbil. But I still count it as a win.
Now that the winter madness is over, I can stop worrying about what makes Shaun White’s mother tick and how curling became an Olympic sport (or any kind of sport). Meanwhile, let’s have a piña colada, but go easy on the ice.
Jan A. Igoe is delighted to trade our frozen wonderland for frozen drinks with little umbrellas to shield them from the summer sun. Write her here.