02/05/2014 03:51 pm ET Updated Jan 26, 2015

An Open Letter To Slushy Corners, The Absolute Worst Part Of Winter

John Moore via Getty Images

We kindly suggest that you listen to the "Pirates Of The Caribbean" theme song or another epic movie soundtrack while you read. We do not take this matter lightly.

Dear Slushy Corners,

Is that what we should call you? Do you prefer another means of address? "Threat Level: Death Puddles" seemed aggressive. But you're not merely puddles.

Like land mines scattered across our city, you lie in wait -- appearing to be simply another small accumulation of water, perhaps a patch of ice. And so, ever so cautiously, we step on you. Foolishly, trustingly, we expect nothing more than perhaps slight slipperiness, only to discover that you are, in fact, a secret LAKE of slush.

Submerged in a shocking depth that can only be compared to a filthy Atlantis, there is nothing to do but extricate oneself. Cheeks burn hot with humiliation, in contrast to the feeling of everything below the knee (cold, wet). We vow to seek vengeance on the very winter that brought you in the first place.

As the streets frost over in this polar vortex, our daily commutes become arctic expeditions, wrought with complex strategy that rivals any of the ideas we've ever brought to team meetings. Indeed, the work day becomes an afterthought, as we zip up our coats and step into rubber rain boots that should not count as shoes, preparing to trek through wasteland known only as a "wintry mix."

Arriving at the office, you further slash at our pride, as we squeak through the halls like hapless fishermen. The floor around our desk is slowly surrounded by a halo of grey residue, a bleak reminder of the salt that tried in vain to defeat you.

It was three days ago now that a large rodent named Phil informed, nay, threatened us, with six weeks more of your frozen resolve to wreak havoc on our socks, leggings and non-rubberized footwear. We have considered investing in galoshes, as the more desperate among us mount cross country skis.

Our resolve is slowly crumbling, as we use you as an excuse to avoid trips to the gym and grocery store. Growing ever pudgier, we contact a brave few scouts from the Seamless army, as they valiantly trek through your "un-leapable lagoons" to our apartment doors, bearing the carbs that we so desperately desire to shove in our faces while watching Netflix.

Confined to our closet-sized living accommodations, our expressions turn hopeless as we look out of the windows, peering at the cross street, terrified of what lies beneath your shiny surface. You seem to flicker in the sunlight, mocking us with reminders of a warmer time. We briefly consider murdering everyone we know and moving to Aruba.

The New York Times tried to write poetry about you, when you "froze into little moonscapes overnight," but we weren't fooled. We weren't romanced by your sparkling surfaces. We knew we would be tricked yet again, helpless to do anything but tweet angrily about #deblasiosnewyork.

You may have cornered us now, slushy corners. We admit we are reduced to fatter, paler versions of ourselves, crippled by your treacherously sneaky existence. But this fight is far from over. May we remind you that you exist in a temperate climate and SPRING IS COMING. As the temperature rises, you will be sucked ever so slowly up into the clouds, helpless but to rain down on us once the evaporation cycle is complete. And by then, we will be armed with umbrellas, upon which you are welcome to splatter, robbed of all power only to flood into the nearest street drain, where you will be met by rats and, we don't know, probably crocodiles.

We are cold. We are wet. And we haven't worn appropriate clothing to work since mid-December, but your reign is coming to an end, you precipitous anomalies. Prepare to be vanquished by routine weather changes.

The Tri-State Area



Slushy Puddles