It’s winter again.

Yippee.

Where I live we get snow.  Not every day.  But we get it.  At times a lot of it. It’s a pain in the ass.  It’s the shoveling.  The not being able to hop in your car and go somewhere without first moving pounds of snow.  And then never knowing if your car will start or stop when you need it to or someone else’s car will slip and slide and crash into you. Snow means weather related cancellations which are inconvenient, and often cost me money. Snow means being stuck inside.

It’s snowing tonight.

But there are other reasons why snow is irksome to me. Snow brings back memories.

It was years ago, on a snowy night, back when I lived in a cool neighborhood with friendly social neighbors.  Back when I was still married.

I have never really talked about this night.  This is to be a shortened version, by emotional necessity.

My husband had been distant.  He was never gregarious and often not engaging, but for weeks he could not seem to make eye contact with me at all.

And though I had made this Sex on Demand pledge, I realized that it had been a long time since there had been any demand, request, or suggestion requiring me to honor my pledge and when I did it wasn’t, well, how does one say, romantic?  There was certainly no eye contact.  And there were other things. Just little things that I don’t want to talk about now. (How could I have been so clueless?)

I mentioned my growing discomfort to a girlfriend, who said, of course, that I needed to talk to him.  Duh.  Obvious response, and I knew that’s what I needed to do,  but I wasn’t sure if I was imagining it (or I knew I wasn’t).  It’s like when there’s a funny smell — before you do anything about it, first you ask around, “Does anybody else smell that?”

So I hadn’t said anything to him.  Not yet. I was going to, but I didn’t know how or when. And I wasn’t completely convinced of why — I mean everyone is entitled to be in a funk from time to time.  Maybe it was just that.  And winter.

Then there was a snowstorm. This meant that until the morning sun could break through clear skies and shine on our faces, signaling that it was time to  begin the back straining process of digging out, we were housebound. No one could go anywhere.  So my very cool neighborhood decided to have a snow party. Everyone was invited to walk to one neighbor’s house, bring whatever we had on hand to share,  and just hang out. It was like college, where you didn’t need a car to go out and no one had to worry about being a designated driver and we could just walk home. Except it wasn’t like college, because I had all those kids and a brooding husband who could not look at me  . . .  but I digress.

My husband didn’t seem to want to go to the party.  This was not unusual. He never liked to go to parties.  Not with me, anyway.  See My High School Self, My Vampire Boyfriend. Still, we went, with our kids.

I thought it was fun. It gave us something to do, I could be around adults and consume free food and it was better than being cooped up in the house with little kids watching TV. My husband seemed okay once he got to the party, chatting with the neighbors about travel and hobbies (his travel, his hobbies). But he didn’t talk to or make eye contact with me.  I remember coming up to him while he was talking to someone and trying to join the conversation. He did not acknowledge my presence in any way. He’s tall.  He looked over me, literally.

When the party was over, we walked home in the snow and put the five children to bed. He sat on our bed, his back to me, saying nothing.

Out of exasperation rather than anger or reason, I said — blurted out, really, “What is wrong?  You’re acting like something’s wrong.  What is it?”

Without looking at me,

he said, simply,

“I have to go.”

Those four words changed my life, his life, our children’s lives and set me on a course which landed me here talking via the interwebs to you fine people.  (Channeling Jack from Titanic — oh wait, he died.  Oops.)

Tragically,  my initial response to him was, “Go where?”

I didn’t know what he was talking about. I mean, we were snowed in and all.

Where did he have to go in all this snow? 

And that, as they say, was that.  Well, a lot of stuff happened, but he did eventually, go. He had to, you see.

So, now, on this snowy night years later, almost to the exact day of that fateful snowy night when my husband said those four stinging words,  I sit here, thinking .  .  . I really don’t like snow. It’s a lot of work. The shoveling and all.

Just Me With . . . snow.

See also:

My Cheating Husband Was Packing Viagra — Packing my husband’s things.

When I Needed a Helping Hand — Moving my husband’s things out.

My Worst Superbowl, Remembered — When I realized it was a lost cause.