We're complaining because it's windy and cold.
We left a balmy Syracuse winter to escape to the Teas coastline. To get there, we're driving through disastrously cold and windy weather in southern Ohio and Kentucky.
Our 24-foot motorhome rocks back and forth violently as we crawl down the highway, going 44 mph. We're pummeled, whammed repeatedly by menacing wind gusts. Still, we inch along. Because the coast of Texas beckons.
And, as we inch, we complain, and cover ourselves in three, four layers of balmy-weather clothes because we failed to pack the stuff that stands up to winter.
And we complain, as we pump $5.19-a-gallon propane into our tank so we can crank up the inside heater so we won't become ice cubes.
And we complain as we walk our dogs in the wind and the snow and the horrible cold. Oh, how we pity us.
Our phone rings, and it's our neighbors from back home. Worried about us. Are we OK? (Yes.) Did we hear the news?
No ... What news?
Less than 150 miles to our east, while we were complaining, a tornado was killing people, destroying communities. Tearing families a apart. I just read about a 2-year-old, found barely alive in a field, who is now critical in a local hospital. Her parents and siblings dead. Killed by that tornado.
All that death. All that destruction. How pitiful our complaints.