Shovel happy.

I’m an idiot.

I know this probably does not come as a surprise, especially to those of you who have been reading this thing since the very beginning, but it had to be said. Why? Because knowing that I am an idiot will help explain the next thing I am going to say.

I love shoveling snow.

That’s right. While Julie Andrews is busy singing about raindrops on roses and whiskers on ferrets (I would be the worst contestant in the history of that show Don’t Forget The Lyrics), I’m outside, in sub-zero temperatures, performing back-breaking manual labor with a stupid grin on my face. Sure, I’m mostly grinning because that’s the way my face froze, but also because I find snow shoveling to be a thoroughly enjoyable activity. The weirdest part? I have no idea why.

On paper, I should hate shoveling snow. It combines two of man’s greatest fears, exercise and chores, to create a megazord of awfulness that turns everything it touches to grumpy. It’s like mowing the lawn, except the grass is a foot-tall and falling from the sky. And unless you’re a millionaire who can afford a snowblower (seriously, do they make those things out of diamonds?), you don’t even get to enjoy the best part of exterior home maintenance: operating extremely dangerous gasoline-powered machinery.

Maybe it’s my childlike infatuation with snow. Maybe it’s the instinctual desire to dig, ingrained in our collective DNA. Maybe it’s the sense of pride that comes with knowing I’m keeping my family safe by clearing our steps and walkways of slippery snow and ice.

Then again, maybe it’s spending hours outside, avoiding all the other chores I don’t want to do.

Don’t tell Wife about that last part.