And I said it would never happen.

Last night, I eagerly checked the clock, signed off my work computer and grabbed my gym bag before I headed out into a relatively warm winter night. After arriving at my destination, I settled onto a bench, opened the bag and pulled out the hockey skates that soon found me moving (not zipping or flying, but moving) across the ice of my favorite skating rink.

Cue the sound of screeching brakes. What’s that? Favorite skating rink? Ice? Vickie?

That’s right, world. Something altogether strange and unexpected has happened: I am actually enjoying this winter. The Vermont-raised anti-winter stalwart, the one always complaining about the chill, the three-season woman living in a four-season city, has found advantages to what she used to refer to as “the winter wonderland of doom.”

I admit that it initially started out as an attempt at trying out some reverse psychology on Mother Nature. By embracing winter and giving up my protests, I thought to myself, I’d be met with balmier temperatures. And, to my surprise, that actually worked.

What’s weirder, however, is the fact that I found myself enjoying a free week between Christmas and the New Year, dismayed that it was too warm for proper skating ice.

You see, I now own  a pair of hockey skates. I discovered that I so enjoyed my time on the Fenway rink last month (and last year’s microvation at Frog Pond) that skating could prove a particularly beneficial activity for me to take up. It’s a great way to get exercise, it’s low-impact enough for me to go for long stretches of activity without worrying whether my knee will protest and it is ripe with the potential for social interaction.

So skating started to become a thing I liked to do. Out in the cold. In winter. Regularly.

Which is why people who know me were almost as shocked as when the time came that I complained that it was too warm for me to ice skate.

Hell has officially frozen over.

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