I am adjusting to North Carolina relatively well, although I do miss living in a functioning democracy. That aside, I was unprepared for the havoc of the “snow storm” that hit Raleigh this past weekend. I will recount the icy chaos and my experience with my first southern inclement weather event.

I hail from upstate New York, so I am used to excessive snowfall and real winters. Having six or eight inches of snowfall overnight and not batting an eyelash about it was a frequent, recurring memory from my childhood. So when I heard about this impending snowpocalypse of three to five inches, I chortled loudly. Boy, I was mistaken.

When the snow falls in North Carolina, it melts within hours. However, the temperature then plunges as the sun sets and in the morning everything is covered in a thick layer of solid ice. I had no clue about this, so I set out to take my daily walk and to enjoy the pristine winter scenery. I almost died. Actually, maybe I did and I am unknowingly writing this from purgatory.

As soon as I stepped outside, my super duper work boots and their overwhelming contribution to my masculinity were no match for the ice. I fell down and it hurt. I also had no idea my vocabulary of expletives was so extensive and elaborate. Apparently, my neighbor didn’t know that either.

Just when I thought the worst was over, I heard the sound of vehicular mayhem. A skinny, blonde thirty-something woman attempted to careen her oversized SUV (it was a Chevy Denali Yukon Zulu Warrior Moon Cruiser V8 XXXL Platinum Limited Edition or something like that) down the narrow alleyway between some reasonably-priced townhomes. Never before had I seen a vehicle move at such a speed without the wheels turning. The gargantuan chrome and aluminum tanker spun a whole three-hundred and sixty degrees before straightening out, fishtailing, and subsequently knocking over a nearby garbage can.

I briskly walked away before I became the next object to be knocked over, but not too briskly because I did not want to fall again and have the FCC fine me for another potty-mouthed broadcast.

I made a few hundred feet before another hazard presented itself; children. There was an entire herd of them standing at the summit of a little hill. They were taking turns sliding down the hill, where most of the snow had melted and there was just slick, amber-colored grass, on a sled that was probably more valuable than my car. Back in upstate New York, my sled was from the discount rack at Walmart and was perfectly suitable for the serene rolling drumlins that surrounded my childhood home. I was envious, nostalgic, and distracted.

I was distracted to the point where I almost stepped into an intersection where a large pickup truck, so large that it even dwarfed the great carbon emitter I had just encountered by the townhomes, was figure skating. I quickly leapt back and onto a patch of ice that was cleverly disguised as snow. It was almost as deceptive as the North Carolina General Assembly. The truck skated over where I had been standing moments ago, performance tires and all wheel drive alike no match for the very icy ice. Neither were my workboots (did I mention how manly they are?) and I slipped yet again, only this time I landed in a thorny bush. Splintered, sore, and fearing for my life, I trudged my way back home, some five-hundred feet behind me, and went inside. I kicked off my boots, flung my jacket, and proclaimed to the Gods my horror.

Then I spent the rest of the weekend drinking wine, watching Netflix, and barely tolerating the screams of joyous neighborhood children, who would subsequently receive three snow days.