Alas, it is snowing.
I avoid going outside. And, I avoid going outside. And then, I avoid going outside.
I don’t like snow. I don’t care that I grew up in Wisconsin. I don’t care that I spent 2 1/2 years living in colder Minnesota. I don’t care that I spent 3 1/2 years in milder (albeit still cold. Sort of. Sometimes.) Ohio.
I don’t like snow. I don’t like being cold.
But I do like an excuse to add hot cocoa and mochas to my hot beverage repertoire.
I like duping myself into making heart-attack inducing casseroles (hotdish to my friends in Minnesota) reasoning they'll stick to my bones.
You mean corn-dog casserole ISN’T good fore me? But it has corn in it!
I like being able to stay in my sweatpants all day, since I’m not going anywhere. Actually, I already do that, even when I have places to go. But now it’s LEGIT.
However, my hermit ways also manifest themselves when I’m depressed. I pine, not for the fjords, but for a deep, dark cave where I can go unnoticed and silent until the end of days. Like the prisoners of Plato’s cave, I see only the false shadows of my mind’s making.
Hermiting in the winter is ok, so long as it limits itself to things like sweaters and hot chocolate. It is not ok when it harbors solitude and sadness.
For me, at least, it’s a fine line.