Living in Boston and complaining about shoveling snow doesn’t exactly make you stand out as a unique breed of semi-sentient being. It’s like being a writer and owning cats. Well, I’m guilty of the latter, and I’m about to indulge in the former.
Today we were vouchsafed about six inches of snow that fell so beautiful and soft and light, you almost don’t mind that half the snow slides right back down and the other half blows back in to the spot you just cleared. This sort of duplication of effort rebounds all around.
When you clear the steps, you push snow down onto the sidewalk. When you clear the sidewalk, you fling snow out into the street. When you clear the driveway, you fling snow back onto the sidewalk. And into the street. It’s okay, you’ll clean that up when you’re done. When you clear the sidewalk again, you notice that you didn’t clear the driveway wide enough to actually get the car out of the garage. Just as you finish clearing the driveway again, the plow kindly notifies you that you didn’t get the snow out of the street in time (or did you conveniently forget about that?), by dragging a nice thick swath of white across the once open mouth of the driveway.
When that happens, wouldn’t you express your exasperation with the gentlemen who drive snow plows with the single most ladylike word? Then continue using that word as you finish getting the snow out of the street? No wonder I felt wiped out when I was done. I thought vigorous exercise was supposed to invigorate you!
And that’s why I added lots of ginger to chicken and rice soup and had that for a nice restorative lunch.
Writing Every Day 
Sisyphus, meet snowplow…
Too true. Today, more so.