Why am I here?

This morning I made some coffee, put my coat on, put the dog’s coat on, and ventured out into the recent snowfall to provide the dog a suitable location for bowell and bladder evacuation.  The snow was about level with our front steps, which are about 2.5 feet high.  Both the dog and I could walk across the top of it with no problem.  That means the snow is encased in a crust of ice capable of supporting a 220 pound man and a 13 pound dog.  I was planning on blowing out the driveway this morning, but I’m beginning to think the National Guard might need to get involved.

 I grew up about halfway down the east coast of Florida, about 1/4 mile from the closest thing to unspoiled beach that you’ll find on the eastern seaboard.  I could walk a short distance and immerse myself comfortably in the Atlantic ocean on a whim, at nearly any time of year.

But now I’m in Minnesota, pondering a way to chip myself and my car out of my house so I can attend to the business of the day.  Were I in Florida, I might be considering whether or not to bring a surfboard to the beach.  How did I get here?  Should I get an MRI?

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