Have you ever noticed that the people who work here are always in a bad mood?" said the woman next to me. We'd been waiting outside a ladies room for the janitor to finish cleaning. When she was done we thanked her, and she turned to glare at us on her way out. Weird.

"I think this weather has made everyone cranky," I replied, looking out the window as a splattering of mush fell from the yech-colored sky.

"Not me," she said. "I'm happy to be alive."

She went on to confide that she'd been battling cancer for some time and every day it didn't come back was a good day, no matter how much it snowed or how cold it was.

She left with a smile on her face. What a great outlook, I thought, feeling cheered by our brief exchange. Then I went outside and stepped in a puddle of slush. Oh, get a grip, I told myself. It's only snow and water and dirt, not toxic sludge.

Driving along -- be glad you have a car! -- I tried to think of an upbeat song to lift my spirits. But the ashen sky was too heavy a weight. Day after day of granite and gray had sucked all color and light out of the atmosphere, not to mention my mood. Plus, the enormous mounds of snow piled up on either side of the road were closing in on me, like in a James Bond movie where the diabolical shrinking room threatens to flatten 007 into human cardboard.

Stop being so dramatic! Remember how beautiful this all was two weeks ago.

Indeed. When the first blanket of snow fell and fell and fell some more, it was magical in an other-worldly way.

Bare trees were suddenly laden with white cotton candy. Street lights took on the blurred aura of a van Gogh painting. Sound was muffled, as if the whole neighborhood was on mute. Windows lit from within gave off a warm amber glow. Only the horse-dawn sleigh was missing.

The next day's sky was clear and bright blue. Reflected sunshine made the snow look crusted with diamonds. Kids and dogs were out romping in their yards; every so often a cross-country skier would glide down the middle of otherwise deserted streets. Back yard grills and deck furniture sprouted columns of white froth that kept growing straight up, like suds in a kitchen sink. We seemed to be living inside a giant snow globe.

Then the digging out began. The snow was so deep and heavy, it had to be shoveled off in layers. Neighbors joked with each other between groans. Snow kept falling, and the bottom later turned to ice. Spinning car wheels gave off the smell of burning rubber. Laden tree limbs started to crack. Power lines went down; water pipes froze. Snow plows and salt trucks became mythical creatures -- we all heard tell of them, but nobody actually saw one.

The sun disappeared behind a thick curtain of gray, and the heavens took on a somber hue that threatened permanence. With each successive snowfall, shoulders sank a little lower and brows furrowed a little deeper, until going outside only seemed to increase the claustrophobia.

Then came the icicles -- long, menacing daggers that, if let loose, would surely impale anyone or thing beneath them. Just looking at the jagged edges made my skin prickle.

Remember the woman in the ladies room, I lectured myself. Every day you're alive is a good day!

Of course it is. We might not be jumping for joy when the great meltdown begins in earnest with leaky roofs and windows, falling plaster, flooded basements and underpasses, but it'll still beat being dead, right?

Well, duh. But most of us don't measure things against the ultimate extreme. Digging your way out of a snow bank in Pittsburgh is better than digging out of an earthquake in Haiti, but it's not as good as a spring day with sunny skies. A flooded basement is better than a tsunami, but a dry basement is still infinitely preferable.

The truth is that when you've survived a scare, say a fire, crash or illness, simply being alive is its own reward -- for a while. That's assuming your body, head and/or heart are not in horrible pain, in which case a person might not find every day to be so delightful.

But if and when things return to normal, the old "don't know what you've got 'til you're faced with losing it" principle begins to recede in consciousness. Most of us simply are not built to view each day through that kind of either-or prism.

Ask anyone who's traveled in the developing world, some of which looks more like the decomposing world. They come home swearing they'll never complain about Pittsburgh roads again, or take clean water for granted. Yet sooner or later, they're cursing the potholes as loudly as ever and letting the faucet run.

Short memories mean taking a lot of things for granted. On the other hand, if we stopped to wonder at the miraculousness of every snowflake or every breath, we'd never get the driveway cleared or the laundry done.

Even beneath this mood indigo, I think most of us realize we're glad to be here. We'll feel even better on the other side of winter, when the layers of clothes come off and buds form on the trees. Things could always be worse, but there's no sense adding a layer of guilt on top of a seasonally dark disposition. The doldrums, like life, are only temporary.

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