. . . is how freaking over it everyone is. Even babies.
I got off the train this morning, weary from insomnia, pissed off that my power has gone out twice in the last twenty-four hours, and sick of planning my wardrobe around things that a) won't drag in mounded snow or salt, and b) don't clash with my giant red plastic snow boots (so whimsical when you only wear them twice a year. . . such a pain when you wear them for two weeks solid).
And I'm sure I had the grumpiest look in the world on my face as I came up the escalator and saw the world's cutest baby, bundled to the gills and chillaxing in his stroller as his mom refilled her SmartTrip card.
And I felt my face shifting out of "Grrrr, fucking winter" toward "aw, a baby," when I realized that the baby's expression was not one of "whee! snow!" or "augh, scary looking angry lady!" but one of weary resignation.
If babies could talk, this one would've been saying "I hear you, sister."
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