Recovering from the traumatic brain injury of social media

After the big snowfall the other day, I didn't get a chance to get outside until late at night, after the kids were in bed. I bundled up with the thick mittens and wool hat and the big fleece neck gaiter I had just bought, and smoked a bit of weed in the garage on my way out. I had no destination in mind, I just needed to walk, to hear the snow crunch beneath my feet and not much else. That's the fine thing about the nights after a snowfall; everything is muffled, and far-off, while you yourself are socked away behind layers of clothing. Sometimes it feels like walking on the moon.

A man in his sweatpants steps out of one of the houses with a shovel and starts to dig his way from his front door to the sidewalk. I know him by sight, but we've never spoken. It is cold enough that I have to bury my nose in the fleece of the neck gaiter to keep it from freezing. I remark to myself how long away San Francisco feels, but I am glad to be out tonight and there is no love lost on my new frozen home. I do wish there was more density, and more places to walk to, a bar I could easily stumble in for a round, or a pizza shop selling slices, while the warm doughy scent would be enough for me tonight. I do wish it was easier to escape the rows and rows of houses. I yearn for the warm nights and my bicycle. I settle for this and crunch away to cut through the park before I turn home.