Commentary

Winter zipper rant

February 19, 2026   ·   0 Comments

By Anthony Carnovale

“I mean, what else is it supposed to be?”

This is how a local merchant responded to me after I complained about the weather. I can’t remember how cold it was; I just remember it being cold. Really cold. Is that not something worth complaining about?

Now, before you start in on me with:

“Oh, these younger generations…”

“What country do you think we’re living in?”

“Listen to snowflake talking smack about a few snowflakes.”

“I mean, what else is it supposed to be?”

I did go for a run when it hit 23 below; I didn’t go for a run when it hit 25 below. Usually, I don’t let the weather stop me from going for a run. You just layer up, make sure there’s no gaps for the cold to sneak in.

Like anything else you practice, you start to develop a few hacks. Your route is determined by the streets where the wind is at your back. When there’s snow on the ground, run inside the deepest tire track, maybe the one with a little bit of snow for some traction. Run on the surface that’s been recently salted.

When it’s crazy cold, I also run with a pair of socks over my gloves. Sometimes, I’ll even wear two pairs of pants. It’s a good idea to run slowly around corners. I’m not breaking any records, but I’m still running. It makes for some sloppy runs, but nobody comes back from a run and says they wish they hadn’t run.

Winter has to be the one season where walking is harder than running. I only ever feel like a popsicle when I’m not running. I mean, I love walking my dog, but walking a dog that likes to stop and sniff every few minutes in this weather? Lord help me. And those between places – from your house to the car; from your car to your workplace. I don’t even own an automatic car-starter. Don’t get me started on pumping gas.

“I mean, what else is it supposed to be?”

Not this:

My kids have missed 14 days of school over the past few months. They’re on course to trump last year’s tally of 21. Even when they’re at school, they’re not allowed to go out for recess.

We’re all spending more time inside. In my home, I feel like I’m in a tent more than a brick home. No matter how much I turn up the heat, there are still cold spots. The draft from the fireplace makes the floor feel like a skating rink. Sometimes our garage door doesn’t close. I’ve closed some vents, opened others. I leave some doors open. Close others. I’m like an HVAC conductor trying to coax the heat into flowing in certain directions. The only thing that works at night is the dog at the end of the bed, curved into the bend of my legs.

Truthfully, we’re all getting a bit squirrely. In some ways, it feels a bit like COVID all over again.

Did I mention the squirrels in the attic? The mice in the walls?

“I mean, what else is it supposed to be?”

The kids have gone a little batty. No matter how cold it is, they still beg for ice cream. They treat popsicles like fruit supplements. They wear shorts around the house; my son walks outside with his jacket undone (don’t get me started on hats and mitts). My daughter prefers sleeping with her face to the cold wall. My son loves cold sheets. Maybe I am getting soft, like the ice cream the kids forage from their Nonna’s freezer. Did I mention the three weeks of missed classes?

I mean, it’s not like this is new. Which makes all of this so confounding. Why haven’t we sorted out busing for our children? Whose calling the shots? The fear of lawsuits rules the day. So, we keep them at home, keep them indoors. No more forts. No more snowballs.

Recently, my father told my daughter to never build a fort. They might collapse. Danger. Doom. Everywhere. I can’t even back out of my driveway without thinking about being hit by a meatball in a truck, or a turkey in a Civic.

“I mean, what else is it supposed to be?”

Maybe the store owner was speaking to something more than the cold, something more than forecasts and windchills. Maybe he was alluding to a different type of cold. Maybe he was alluding to a cold world, a world of cold shoulders and colder hearts. Cold glares, cold looks frozen onto our cold screens, flashing cold images of men with the word ICE emblazoned across their chests in the U.S.

The men who wear masks and gloves, not because they’re cold, but to hide their faces, for a better grip on their guns. The men who shoot protestors and deport citizens of their own country. The freezing cold allows them to hunt their targets in conditions that keep all but those who have no choice hunkered down indoors. I haven’t seen a proper snowman in years. I miss the corn-pop pipes and button noses.

I know it won’t last forever, but it feels like this cold winter will never end. And when it does? What’s waiting for us on the other side? When the cold and snow are gone, will it reveal anything new about us? Personally, I’m not waiting for that happen. I’m going to lace up my shoes and run straight on into it.

“I mean, what else is it supposed to be?”

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