1-9-1.  Enter.

It is the end of another long winter day, and without thinking, I press these numbers into the TV remote, just as I do every night.

This has become part of my bedtime routine over the past three years, a subconsciously choreographed dance I’ve mastered.

Brush teeth.  Check Babisodes.  Bundle up under covers.  Turn on the TV to check tomorrow’s weather.

When I first moved to New England I constantly tuned into the Weather Channel. As if my earnings weighed heavily on the rise and fall of Boston’s climate conditions.

Local weather conditions flashed along the bottom of the screen like a stock ticker. I’d wait anxiously.  Hoping. Hoping. Hoping for even the slightest sign of temperatures on the rise.

Then, as of this week, while another snowstorm silently brewed in the dark nighttime skies outside, I lied down and just fell asleep.

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