Typically, I hate winter. Hate it with the fire of a thousand suns. Hate it like I hate cilantro — and the hatred of cilantro, it grows stronger with each passing day.

My mother always told me that “hate” was “a strong word,” a word specifically reserved for those special times when other strongly negative verbs fail to suffice. A word to be used sparingly and with caution. Indeed, until this year, hatred is a sentiment and hate a word I have reserved especially for winter and snow and All Things Frigid And Ice-Laden.

To my great surprise, this year something has happened to my hatred of the Season Of The W. The fact that this year I have been very much uncharacteristically enjoying winter-time and all of its attributes leads me to believe that the shell of solid ice previously encasing my winter spirit has melted, leaving a mushy, winter-loving puddle in its place.

This year I haven’t minded feet of snow, or hazardous driving conditions, or the fact that people drive INSANELY in this town in the winter, or the fact that my feet and toes and nose become instantly cold upon stepping one foot out-of-doors, or that I sometimes have to scrape my car for a good ten minutes before I am able to pull out of the driveway. In fact, the first time it snowed I smiled. And when it continued to snow for days, I continued smiling.

Yes, I’m beginning to love my winter wonderland. But walking in my winter wonderland, that remains a different story entirely.

(Enter entirely different winter wonderland story.)

On my way to a guitar lesson on Monday afternoon I went to ascend the steps on Le Guitar Instructor’s front porch. Unbeknownst to me there was about a half an inch of solid ice resting comfortably underneath a thin layer of freshly fallen snow, and as I placed my right foot on the bottom step I lost my footing and fell backward, throught the air, off the steps, and landed oh so gracefully /on top of my guitar.

Landed oh so gracefully on top of my guitar that was not safely tucked away in a hard case, as it should have been, but was instead still snuggled in the crappy soft casing with which it had come when I originally purchased it.

Not only did I so brilliantly topple upon my guitar, but I actually very brilliantly WWF’d my guitar, ultimately slamming my entire left side into the once musical instrument in one fluid, painful motion, and not to be outdone with the falling, moments later careening my left elbow down on top of the center of the guitar as if it was The Rock and I was Hogan, angry and professional with the elbow slamming and anxious to redeem my title as The Biggest Baddest Wrestler With The Prettiest Hair.

Cracked a hole in the center of my guitar? You bet I did.

After all you can’t expect someone so accurately imitating The Biggest Baddest Wrestler With The Prettiest Hair not to break whatever they so professionally fall upon.

You can, however, expect her to be mightily bruised (both in body and in pride) and yet still somehow quite entertained and even mildly impressed with herself the next day.