Salt In Our Wounds
The past few days have been unseasonably cold where I live. Actual temperatures well below freezing. Windchills in the single digits. Snow. At most, a gentle dusting in its accumulation. But snow all the same, falling often the last few days, as temperatures have plummeted. My hands, itchy and irritated, dry and cracked, feel like we’ve traveled back to the cold days of January.
It won’t last. These return to cold detours are just a regular part of spring. But knowing that doesn’t make them any easier to handle. Knowing the cold is temporary doesn’t make me any less stubborn about not wanting to pull my winter coat out of the closet to walk my dog. Maybe it’s because the cold won’t last that I almost refuse to wear fleece-lined tights and my warmest layers on a run.
I have a closet with plenty of warm layers, clothing perfectly suited to this dip in temperature. Clothing that I truly enjoy bundling up in, two months ago. Clothing that constantly amazes me when I feel sweat trickle down my back in single digit temperatures and subzero windchills. But clothing that I like to tuck away for the season after I’ve gotten to run a few times in shorts and t-shirts. And for as long as I can remember, I’ve felt at least a few moments of genuine anger when zipping up my winter coat once the calendar says it’s spring.
I’m someone who actively tries to not complain, and I think I generally hold to that pretty well. But that goes out the window on these unseasonable cold spells in late March. As much as I enjoy cold weather all winter, by the time we arrive at mid-March, I’m quite sick of being cold. And I’m also stubborn, so I cling tight to the calendar date instead of the actual weather when I choose things from my closet.
In short, I make these late-season cold spells worse for myself. And probably worse for the people around me too. Because on these days when I refuse to acknowledge what the actual temperature is, I dress for what I stubbornly think the weather should be outside. I get so sick of being cold, and dressing myself for the below freezing temperatures, that I constantly make myself colder. Then, I complain on repeat to my husband, my dog and myself.
But last night, after a gentle suggestion that I have warm clothes, I decided not to be stubborn. I chose fleece-lined tights and my warmest wool long sleeve layer. I drew the line at a winter coat though and pulled on a spring-weight jacket instead. Then, with a headband and gloves, my dog and I set out into the evening. And honestly, I was incredibly comfortable for our entire run. I dressed for the weather, and I had nothing to complain about.
During our few miles, my dog and I ran past a local church. One that I typically avoid on our winter routes because they tend to douse their sidewalks with salt, creating treacherous terrain for dog paws. But with grass visible for a few weeks, I’ve stopped avoiding their sidewalks. Last night though, they were again coated in an unnecessarily thick layer of purple-tinted salt crystals. Preemptively prepared for inches of snow accumulation that was never on the radar.
Normally seeing their sidewalks in the winter only makes me think about how obscenely salty they are. How unnecessary most of it is. But last night, they made me think about how much extra salt we all metaphorically use in our own lives. How upset we get when we feel someone else rubbed salt in our wounds. Only to go home and hold the salt shaker upside-down and open above them ourselves.
We rub salt in our own wounds, again and again. And then we expect the people in our lives to comfort us because it hurts. We rightfully hurt when others kick us when we’re down, whether they meant to or not. But then we ignore that we are also often the ones making ourselves feel tender and raw. Dousing our situations in unnecessary amounts of salt.
It’s a lesson I needed last night, when I had nothing to complain about, on a cold day in March.
