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I wore a pair of colorful Adidas shoes last week, shoes without any weather-ready traction or grip.
I thought about wearing my boots, but I'll turn 40 in a few months and the shoes, albeit ill-suited for a Minnesota winter, make me feel cool.
That was a mistake.
Just after I'd dropped off my youngest daughter at school, I decided to leave the sidewalk next to the parking lot and walk on the street. That's when the patch of ice found me.
I did not just slip. I fought. I wrestled. I, internally, prayed for balance or a fall that didn't require a trip to the emergency room. While I contended with fate, I could smell the Icy Hot in my future.
My arms were in the air as I twirled them like I was trying to lift an imaginary prop plane off a runway. The other parents, helpless, saw the whole thing unfold.
When the battle ended, a woman who'd just dropped her daughter off sighed as if she had tussled with the Minnesota Ice Monster a few times in her life, too.
Despite the drama of the winter, it's in those moments that I feel the most Minnesotan.
And when a snowstorm is barreling down on the whole city, I become someone that only a person who lives here understands.
Last week's snow waves and the predictions attached to them were frustrating because of what was ahead and assuring because at least we knew what was coming (Did it ever come?) They were also unifying.
You can't escape the snow. Every person in the state knows that anyone can slip and fall, too. You can hit that curve too fast and end up in a ditch, where you'll wait hours for a tow truck. You can get stuck in your house with the kids and fail to get any meaningful work done.
In these conditions, shoveling becomes a Peloton class we all have to take.
A day before the first wave arrived, I rolled my window down and pulled up next to my neighbor.
"You ready?" I said.
"Not really," he said.
We were not preparing to fight Ivan Drago. We were getting ready for a snowstorm.
But I felt like I had another combatant next to me.
And then, I did what anyone does in this weather. I ventured to Home Depot. I was searching for an ice pick or anything to break up the layers of ice in my driveway. I grabbed one and brought it to a register.
The attendant looked at it with suspicion.
"Hmmm," he said. "I don't know. Worried about the blade."
Well, then I worried about the blade.
"That might bend on you," he said.
Then, he led me to the premium ice picks. I grabbed one and brought it home.
With Thor's hammer in my hand, I walked onto my driveway, packed with ice that has piled up while I've been on the road for the last three months, and went to work. I jabbed and poked and attacked the ice. Throughout the week, others in my neighborhood joined the fight. They shoveled and salted and pushed the stuff around, too.
We were together in this.
While I'm quick to tell my friends and loved ones about my dream of moving to a warmer place when my kids get older and leave my house — I'm not convinced they'll ever leave my house — I've become more defensive about this place and its wacky weather.
My Minnesota friends and I trade, "Why do we live here?" texts when the snowstorms come, but I won't accept that nonsense from the people in California, Florida and Texas I know. Mind your business. This is our problem.
Last week, the reaction to the arrival of a snowstorm that threatened to dump 2 feet of snow onto the Twin Cities made me feel like a real Minnesotan. There were tweets about the historic predictions and snarky responses to confident meteorologists. There were packed parking lots at every grocery store in town.
There were questions from parents about a three-day stint of distance learning with kids who all just need a break.
I'd traveled last week for work and I wasn't sure if I'd get home.
But I got a seat on the last available flight to Minneapolis from Detroit on Wednesday afternoon, just as the next wave of snow arrived. A few rocky stretches in the air, however, made me think I'd made the wrong decision. But when we landed, I felt like I'd prevailed. I made it home and the storm hadn't won.
Then, it dumped more than a foot of new snow onto my driveway.
More will come, if not this winter then next winter or the one after that.
When that happens, I'll join the crowds and get more food than I need, buy a new ice pick or shovel that's somehow better than the other three I have and buckle down to entertain the kids.
But the snow won't win. We never let it win.
I will, however, make sure I wear the right shoes.
Myron Medcalf is a local columnist for the Star Tribune and a national writer and radio host for ESPN. His column appears in print on Sundays twice a month and also online.
