Captain New England: The Winter Soldier

Everything is infinitely harder in the winter. Riding the MBTA has become a challenge of legendary proportions, a test of faith, a labour that even Hercules would scoff at and say “lol yeah nvm.”

But here we are, living in the SECOND winteriest winter of all time. We’re all thinking it, but I’m just going to say it. Second isn’t good enough for me. I need to be able to say I lived through the MOST historic winter of all time in this great city or it will be all for naught. It may be crazy to wish for more snow, but ten years from now I want all the bragging rights. Second isn’t good enough.

But vying for the top snowfall in a single winter in the city of Boston doesn’t change the fact that it’s frustrating as hell. And by the way, whoever said that hell was decorated with rings of fire is lying. Hell has frozen over, the Charles river has frozen over. My life feels frozen in place.

I’ve always ignored it, the never ending sadness that I get looped into when the temperatures drop, and the excitement of fall fashion wears down into, “how many layers can I put on without looking like a marshmallow.”

Whispers that “seasonal depression isn’t real” gnaw at my brain and I push them away. I feel alone all week, and then when the time comes to be social…I cancel. What’s that about? I talk about wanderlust, boast about adventures, but most of the time now, I’m tempted to stay home. Stay under the covers and constantly refresh Facebook and Reddit. I’d rather try and gain another follower than follow my friend to the bar.

But this seasonal sadness is real, and living in the city has made these emotions 10 times more difficult to deal with. It’s troublesome to even go to the grocery store. Getting drinks with friends isn’t a mad dash for the car and blasting the heat — it’s walking about a mile on the snow and ice, waiting up to 15 minutes for a train, walking maybe a mile or so to the bar, and then lather, rinse, and repeat for the trek home.

Do I go out? Do I stay in? These sweatpants are a venus fly trap, I’ll never escape. But I haven’t talked to a human soul in three days, it feels like. Winter manifests a constant desire to never be alone, and also a need to be in bed all day, continuing my binge through Gilmore Girls.

I feel distant from everyone. Six feet of snow between me and the rest of the world. Constantly afraid I’m going to miss out on opportunities, but trapped inside by continued boredom. You know what I’m saying? When you are so bored and lethargic, just the idea of changing the channel becomes a challenge too mediocre to tackle.

I haven’t been going to the gym. I’m craving 2lb. burritos smothered in hot sauce. I want ice cream still (well, that might have nothing to do with the winter blues). I want dark beers and roasted chestnuts. I dream of chocolate lava cakes that warm me from the inside out with every bite. The ingredients for buffalo chicken mac and cheese await in my fridge, like a potion waiting to be concocted. I want cookie flavored tea.

I am a constant crank monster. I find I can’t write, I can’t read. My creativity migrated south for the winter. I have no desire to learn unless it’s about the hidden easter eggs in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, which I disguise in delusional validation, calling it “multimedia and cross platform storytelling,” but let’s be real. Googling is easy in the winter. Thinking for yourself is hard.

I want to quit. Hibernate. To come back when we can see the grass again. Put everything on hiatus until the trees start to bud. Cancel Boston, try again in a month. Sleep for 70 years like Captain America and only wake up when it’s above 74 degrees.

Or you know. I could just move, I guess. To California.