Snow and Slush

I have been listening to the snow melt and drip drip drip off the roof and onto my windowsill. And so it begins, the long winter of new soft white muffled snow followed by days and weeks of gray slush. Despite my muscles, only recently recovered from this weekend's bout of shoveling, I'm looking forward to a new snowfall. Is this because my memory of my irritation at the snow and it's accompanying inconvenience fades so quickly? Or, is it merely because I need something to cover the grey? Or, simply, because I have decided that, in the end, it is worth dreary grey and the drip drip drip and the slush and the aching arms for those moments of new snow?