Our driveway remains impassable a week after the snowstorm that dumped more than a foot of fresh snow.

Chunks of ice snag the undercarriage of my Wrangler if I try to venture up the steep hill. That same ice defeats any attempt to clear the mess with our snow blower.

With highs barely reaching 32 degrees and overnight lows stuck in the 20s and teens, there’s little chance for melting, so the depth remains at most of the 14 plus inches that fell a week ago.

Which means I park at the bottom of the 450-foot driveway and trudge up the steep incline to the top of the hill where Amy’s Jeep Liberty remains mired in snow.

There was a time when weather like this would be a welcome challenge. I sneered at two-foot snowfalls and laughed at eye-level drifts. In Washington in 2003, I drove my Wrangler from our home in Arlington through 23-inch snow to the National Mall to shoot photos and used my winch to pull a Hummer off a snowbank.

That was then. This is now. Now I don’t move as fast, my aging joints ache a lot more from brutal weather and my back is killing me from too many falls in the snow and on the ice. My knees stiffen up from each hill climb, my ankles ache and my hip cries out for relief.

My mood over the last few weeks has gone from wonderment to frustration to irritation to anger and — finally — depression.

The weather has won. I have all the classic symptoms of clinical depression: lethargy, inability to concentrate,  fitful sleep, irritation and anger.

I haven’t surrendered yet.

But I’m thinking about it.

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