Years ago your mad admin moved from his midwest American home state down to a southwestern state. Part of the reason for the move was to find better job prospects; that only turned out middling well. I did not starve.
But mostly, the reason was to get the hell away from the snow.
When you’re young, snow is fun. You can play in it, you can slide on it, you can pack it into a ball and attack your enemies with it. You occasionally get a day off from the hellscape of school if enough of the stuff falls at the right time. A child’s interaction with snow is mostly positive.
When you become an adult, it becomes vexatious. You must drive to work in it. You must shovel it off your driveway. During the brief time I had my own home, the geographical configuration of the neighborhood was such that a wind tunnel effect was created by the surrounding homes. This meant that a three-inch snowfall wound up dumping three feet of snow in my driveway, against the garage door. (Your mad admin knows there are plenty of places in the world that get much worse snow than that. I don’t live in those damned places either.)
Upon my retirement, I moved back to my home state, mostly for family reasons. But now that I’m old, the snow is bothersome. I don’t need to get out and shovel it, true; I have nowhere I need to be at any particular time. But it’s the knowledge that I really can’t get out at a particular time that is rather irksome. I know that’s somewhat illogical, but it is so nevertheless.
At least it’s nice to look out the window at the snow covered ground. For a few minutes, anyway. Unless the power goes out and you wonder if you’ll freeze to death.
The idea of moving back south has occurred to me.