I went to the commissary to grocery-shop after a fresh dump of snow recently.
When I arrived, the path I usually take to the door had not been shoveled, but there was a set of footprints on it, going straight for the entrance.
I decided to go that way instead of walking all the way around to where the sidewalk was.
I realized my mistake very quickly, as my legs sank almost knee-deep and snow began to fill my boots. This was not a path! This was a trap!
I lost my footing in the soft snow and fell. I got up. I fell again. I got up and kept walking. There was nothing for it now.
I hoped very much that no one I knew could see me. I bitterly regretted leaving my coat and gloves in the car. The store entrance seemed miles away.
When I finally arrived at the door, which obligingly slid open automatically, just as it was supposed to, I was encrusted all over with a coating of snow. I looked like that kid I blogged about last year. (See “The Boy Who Was Covered in Snow“)
I tried to gather the shreds of my dignity as I brushed snow off my clothes and hair, and tried to scoop it out of my boots. I straightened up and headed into the store.
That’s when I realized I’d left my grocery list in the car.