Postscript

It is now officially Tuesday. My car is buried under snow. Drifts of four or five feet snuggle next to her sides—ostensibly keeping her warm. We went out earlier, although I dwaddled a bit before making it out of the house. We attemted to take some ofteh snow off the cars. The front of my car, or its nose, was lost in a mound of snow.

Because we couldn't get through four foot drifts our attempts were feeble. Most of the car is still held snuggly by snow.

Options: wait until spring to drive again, seek an adolescent who wants to earn money, look forlorn when I see tall and muscular male snow shovelers. Reality: the teenagers in this neighborhood aren't looking for jobs that require manual labor. Waiting until spring seems a burden.

I've been practicing in front of the bathroom mirror and asking myself, "Do I now look like a damsel in distress ?"