Got pain? Forget pounding pillows. Move to Colorado.

Getting my car into the garage took even longer than cautiously driving the three miles of snowy slick roads from work last night!

Entering the driveway evidently requires a skill and finesse yet to be developed.

Eastern Colorado, you probably know, has been slammed by a massive snowstorm. In one fell February 36-hour swoop, Denver alone got about 20 inches of snow. (Some places got 40!)

The average monthly total? Seven inches.

Around 9 p.m. as I was easing into the tight turn toward the driveway, I suddenly, well, stopped moving. I was going nowhere {resisting comparisons to variable life areas}.

I was, in a word, stuck. In snow. I tried the gentle rocking between forward and reverse, careful not to spin the wheels and dig in deeper.

Nuthin’, baby.

I poured my self, encrabbed by the mind-numbing deathly dishwashing of the evening {yes, encrabbed’s now a word!} out of the Subaru to examine the blockages.

It was as expected: high snowy mounds flush hard against the underside and entrapping the tires.

What else to do — no, I don’t mean call in the tow truck. Get the shovel.

Fortunately only a long snowbound driveway and garage door separated me from it.

This is no ordinary shovel. It’s a special shovel. A marvelous shovel.

A shovel intelligently designed for its purpose. A shovel that’s nonetheless about half my size.

What else to do but dig. Dig dig dig the white stuff out and away from those tires!

Shove shove shove that shovel down beneath that undercarriage! Dig dig dig shove shove shove move move move that snow! Lift that snow! Haul that snow! Dump that snow … somewhere!

While digging a car out isn’t rocket science, it’s not without its need for thought and reasoning. Where to deposit the mountains of snow matters. It’s not right to unload them just any ol’ place or the closest spot available — no matter how tempting!

Because YOUR manmade mountain of snow easily becomes the next driver’s entrenchment.

So I shoveled not merely to get that damn wintery obstruction outta the way but in thoughtful consideration of drivers, including roommates, to follow.

And that takes time. Commitment. Work and effort. Don’t call it Primitive Shoveling. Call it Shoveling Design 101.

What they say about shoveling’s accurate. It’s a workout. A sport. A fantastic way to burn off x-number of calories per hour. Dump the gym membership! Just reside in North Dakota. Maine. Northern Montana. Anyplace where snow’s ever present and integral to the scenery. You’ll be or keep fit in no time!

I’m fit without having resided in snow country most of my life so I was up to the task. I won’t say that lifting a shovel half my size loaded with X-pounds of snow is easy — though strangely it’s easier than lifting five plain white porcelain plates at my exceptionally distasteful dishwashing job!

It’s work. Muscle work. Falling-down work. I can’t tell you how many times I stumbled to regain my balance after stepping into snowdrifts.

It’s a lot like moonwalking across a minefield pockmarked with pockets of anti-gravity. You’re traipsing along — traipsing is perhaps too delightful a word to use in this context — with solid ground seemingly below your feet when WHAM! Suddenly the snow that was at the ankles is now at the knees!

Conclusion: An adroit sense of balance is helpful in snow-wading and -shoveling!

Nonetheless, I rose to the challenge. I endeavored in the night and (fortunately) light snowfall. I persevered. Persisted. I got it done. I not only freed and garaged the Subaru but — because it needed to be done — cleared the entire driveway, three-cars-wide, AND a portion of the road too!

Wearing only a cotton T-shirt, moderate-weight jacket, gloves (kept in the car), bandana around the neck, lightweight black cotton pants and those oh-so-attractive non-slip black shoes.

Because yes, my friends, shoveling for an hour is such the workout that you can do it wearing a bikini!*

{*not, uh, suitable at my age)

And thus proceeds my initiation into Colorado winter. The best part – apart from the grand workout? The physical venting of anger, pain and fatigue from that damn dishwashing!

Forget pounding pillows, man! Just move to Colorado!*

{*for writing purposes only; not an invitation}

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