Not long ago, my friend Zach called to inform me that there was a "major weather system coming out of the Arctic Circle" that would cause temperatures to plummet for the next month.

I’m not sure exactly what sort of news service Zach subscribes to (Arctic Weather Systems Weekly?), but he all but assured me we would see single-digit lows into February.

"Well," he concluded, "you know what the Swedes say: there is no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothes."

Yes, well, here is what I have to say to the Swedes: fuck you and your fur-lined boots.

But I don’t want to talk about the Swedes today. What I want to talk about is people like Zach, who are referred to, in the Almondine vernacular, as snowholes.

Your basic snowhole is a person who takes an irrational liking to bad weather. They tend to do a lot of gratuitous frolicking in the snow. The prospect of shoveling the walk excites within them the dangerous glint of industry. They feel affirmed by the wrath of nature, as if the ability to withstand misery were somehow a mark of nobility.

The snowholes are out en masse right now because, for the first time in many years (as we are constantly being reminded), we are experiencing "a real New England winter," meaning, basically, four months of truly shitty weather.

Now: I should make clear that I have no problem at all with Jack Frost doing a little nipping at my nose. It’s when Jack Frost repeatedly bitch-slaps me that I start to get pissy.

But to your average snowhole, Jack Frost’s abuse is cause for celebration. For example, nothing makes my landlord happier than a big storm, because he then gets to march outside with the blessed snow blower. I am, of course, incredibly grateful to him for doing this, as I would find myself snowed in were it not for his efforts. But sometimes I watch him out there and marvel at the expression of dumb joy on his face.

The worst thing about the snowholes is that they don’t just embrace bad weather — they want everyone else to, as well. My friend Natasha went into a paroxysm of joy the last time snow started falling. She ran outside and made snowballs and got all apple-cheeked and goofy.

"Isn’t it beautiful?" she cried.

I demurred.

"Come on," she said. "Stop being such a wimp."

And here, I think, we’re getting to the heart of the matter: for your basic snowhole, bad weather is actually an opportunity to prove genetic superiority. Every time they march outside to face down a biting wind, they are really saying to the rest of us: see how hearty I am? See how much more likely I am to survive against the elements?

Watching them rage and howl, I am reminded of the Jack London story "To Build a Fire," which is about a guy who gets caught in a terrible storm in the Yukon and dies because ... he can’t build a fire. That guy is me, okay? I’m the guy who dies because he can’t build a fire.

But here’s the thing: we don’t live in the Yukon. None of us spoiled babies of the Western world has the first clue what it would be like truly to have to survive against the elements. Which means your basic New England snowhole doesn’t even have the cold-weather cred to mock the rest of us. The only reason they exist is because they have the luxury to exist. You can be damn sure that the guys who live up in Fairbanks, Alaska, take a look at the Boston forecast for February and think one thing: shorts.

Nor do I buy the argument that bad weather is somehow a part of the gestalt of New England living. This notion is related to an endemic strain of masochism inherited, near as I can tell, from the Puritans, and epitomized by loyal Red Sox fans, who not only root for the Sox year after losing year, but secretly view the futility of this exercise as ennobling. Call me crazy, but I don’t consider frozen extremities, car accidents, and muddy carpets to be ennobling. They just suck. And anyway, I don’t remember having signed a contract when I moved to this fair city, stipulating a minimum number of snow days per winter.

There are certain snowholes who make a more reasoned case for their side. They argue for the stark beauty of winter, the white fields of snow, the daggered icicles. And they claim to enjoy certain winter sports, such as cross-country skiing. I would not think to begrudge them these perverse pleasures.

However, I feel duty bound to point out that, aside from the first few hours after a significant snowfall, most of the actual snow in Boston becomes slush or ice or gets ploughed into gross, smog-stained piles. I would also like to point out that there are places called, I believe, mountains, where one can go to be in the midst of and even glide across snow. It is not necessary for snow to be on one’s porch.

In the interest of full disclosure, I must now confess that I grew up in Northern California. I can already hear the snowholes howling in derision: California? What does some thin-skinned punk from California know about a true wintah? If he doesn’t like it here, he should go home.

Let me suggest, in response, that it is possible to move to a city without endorsing its worst aspects. When I lived in Phoenix for a summer, I was not expected to swear allegiance to its 110-degree days.

On a final note, I should add that it did snow once in my hometown, when I was in third grade. It was a freak storm, the first in 50 years, and it left a thin rind of white on the blacktop at school. I remember the excitement we all felt as the flakes drifted down. It lasted about 20 minutes.

Steve Almond can be reached at sbalmond@earthlink.net, or visit his Web site at www.stevenalmond.com.