So there I was at 5:45 this morning out in our driveway shoveling our first real snow. Probably just four inches of the stuff fell last night (but it looked like a foot's worth) and only if you, too, are a shoveler of snow does four inches sound like much. It certainly felt like a lot.

Anyway, Tom would be home soon from work so I needed to shovel at least enough for him to drive into the carport. And at first, there in the silent darkness, I muttered these words with each shovel load I scooped and threw, "We were supposed to (grrr) be out of here by now (grrr)!" For you see, last winter I found strength in repeating these words, "At least I'll never have to do this again. Next year (and beyond) we'll live in gentler climates."

So much for that.

But you know? The more I shoveled, the more invigorated I felt out there in the balmy 30 degree temperatures (a big warm-up from yesterday). I reminded myself that on Oprah they said shoveling snow for 15 minutes is like working-out at the gym for two hours (though, technically, I believe that's an exaggeration, especially if you're shoveling snow Debra's sane-slow-safe way). But still, that's encouraging to someone who desires to stay in shape, but who would wither and crawl away from the gym after any laughter at her extreme lack of coordination, I'm certain.

And when I'd shoveled out to the street, I stood there, gazed into the night sky, then at my neighbors' sleepy houses and appreciated the quiet... and all my hundreds of such winter morning memories. And it hit me--I was having, well, fun. Or a form of fun, anyway.

But only after I'd stopped complaining inside my head did I begin enjoying my task. Imagine that.