As I sit here writing this, a flurry of delicate little flakes is raining down on Saint Paul. Nothing substantial, mind you. Not even enough to make a halfway respectable snow angel. But the little dusting coming down means that it’s finally winter in the Midwest.

Over the weekend (in no small coincidence with the season’s first snowfall), KOOL 108, Minnesota’s favorite oldies station switched from their usual fare of Van Halen and Van Morrison to the soothing sounds of Frank Sinatra, Irving Berlin and, you guessed it, the middle-aged-lady-charmer himself, Michael Buble.

If you’re anything like me, the second those first flecks of snow touched down on the front lawn meant that Christmas was on. And when Christmas is on, it’s full throttle. I’m talking about peppermint spruce candles. I’m talking about “Miracle on 34th Street” blasting over the television 24 hours of the day. I’m talking about piles of Christmas cookies so tall that they break fire codes in my apartment building. Christmas is a gorgeous time of year and who’s to say it shouldn’t last an entire month?

With the snuggles and carols and inevitable appearance of “National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation” come quiet pain, though. The cold wind that sneaks down the back of your coat or makes your freshly-shaven legs immediately prickly brings out a darkness that only we who live in the North can explain.

Whether you do or don’t subscribe to the belief in Seasonal Affective Disorder, it’s undeniable that these months of ice and minutes-long days transform the vivid, vibrant Minnesota landscape into something desolate and bleak. Oftentimes, it feels like we’re living in the world of “The Thing,” but none of us are scientists. None of us are researchers. None of us are badass Kurt Russell. We’re all just cold, desperate people trying to figure out where the shapeshifting monster is going to strike next.

Whether you live in the nastiest of dormitories or in the most luxurious of high-rises, everyone’s known the feeling of un-motivation and dread that comes with waking up, bleary-eyed at a pitch-dark 0600 and upon wandering a little toe out from the comforter, finding freezing cold. Those of us with some shreds of integrity and drive might even be so brave as to painfully remove the insulated covers and venture the thousand-fathom trek through the kitchen to the bathroom, where all night, a rattling, drafty window has been seeping frigid air onto the floor and into the tub.

It’s times like those, standing naked and shivering on cold hard tile, waiting for the old-man piss-stream of shower water to heat up, that it really makes no sense. None of it. Why do we do it? How is it worth it?

But.

If you can brave the bone-cold, groaning car engines and listless radiator clanging that seems to exist solely for your annoyance, the romance and allure of these Minnesota winters shows up everywhere.

The church bells ring their familiar, detuned melody on Christmas Day. Children tear around their yards throwing snowballs and rocks and pretty much whatever else at the snowman they built just hours earlier. Every hot shower feels a little better. Every bowl of soup tastes a little sweeter. Every hug from a friend makes a little more of a difference.

Tonight, when I’m through with work, I’m going to go home. I’m going to put some Nat King Cole on the radio, make myself an extra Christmassy bourbon and cook a hot, filling meal. Then, I’m going to snuggle up under my layers of blankets and watch “Elf” for the eightieth time. That’s what makes this season so loveable. Not everything is great all of the time, but winter serves to remind us that everything really is good. Especially with a dash of peppermint and a splash of nog.