I wrapped a scarf around my neck and swiftly pulled it tight to fit snugly. After struggling momentarily with putting on my gloves, I shoved a light blue hat with a giant pom-pom onto my head. I yelled a lazy farewell to my father as I shut our heavy wooden door; it closed with a loud squeak from the rusty, worn hinges. I walked down the small concrete pathway that led to the road. My snow boots crashed onto the layer of ice, trying to grip on with all their might. But alas, on my third step from the wooden front door, the grip of my boot let go, and my skills in falling were my only defense left to rescue me from injury. I crashed onto my back, narrowly avoiding cracking my head open. As I sat on the icy-covered concrete, I contemplated why I lived in Canada. Finally, I got back, groaning, of course, as my back had struck the concrete with an unexpected amount of force. After such an experience, I felt no desire to continue residing outside. Promptly, I reopened the front door and decided the inside was better for me. I took off my copious layers of gloves, hats, socks, and sweaters to go complain to my dad as to why we did not live in a warmer country.