What kind of person am I? Like many people, I prefer not to confront the question - but sometimes I'm forced to. There I was yesterday morning, cheerfully working my way through $400 worth of emergency groceries I'd bought Monday, admiring the powdery white world outside my window, when the radio announcer mentioned something about shoveling.

Oh, right, all that snow. More than an excuse to drink hot chocolate with mini marshmallows and dress like a slob, it meant work, too. What to do? Should I skulk out under the cover of darkness and leave the path- and stair-clearing to my neighbors? If confronted, I could pretend I hadn't noticed it, or claim that like other essential personnel (doctors, plow drivers, hairdressers, Trader Joe's employees) I needed to get to work very quickly and hence had no time for trivial chores.

Or perhaps I should embrace the task and shovel not only my own portion of the walkway, but others' too.

I weighed the pros and cons. Pro: My gym was closed and I needed upper-body work. Con: I wouldn't know exactly how much exercise I was getting. Pro: I have a new beret that looks good on me (well, as good as a hat can look). Con: It's not warm. Pro: An hour spent shoveling would give me bragging rights for months. Con: Others might not know I was the one who shoveled.

See what I mean about facing one's true self? The really good person wouldn't even have a list, she'd just head out with her shovel, happy that she's able-bodied and can help out old man Jenkins next door and the young single mom with a new baby who lives upstairs. Me, I'm thinking about my pecs.

While other seasons have their outdoor responsibilities - fall's raking, summer's mowing - those are mainly cosmetic. Your neighbors might gossip about your feral lawn, but no one's going to slip and fall on a weed. Snow, however, forces you into a community of people. A shoveled path is only as clear as its snowiest patch.

Because the city tickets those who don't shovel, snow pits neighbor against neighbor but also turns spouse against spouse. The bucolic scene outside only throws into greater relief the tension within the home.

``My husband was curled up in bed with the dog while I was out there shoveling the 20 yards from the back door to the driveway,'' one woman told me, ``and I did the sidewalks, too.

``The bitterness,'' she added, ``was rolling off my back along with the sweat.''

When she finally finished and went back inside, her man was still snoozing. ``It's like not hearing the baby when it cries,'' she noted. ``They must teach this to men.''

But even people with the best intentions can be stymied. What, for example, are you supposed to do with the snow? Blow it over to your neighbor's side when he's not looking? Pack it in a baggie, carry it on the T to work and dump it there? Melt it on your stove and pour it down the drain? Here's an idea: Let's just let the snow stay put until it melts on its own.

As one essential worker noted, ``One hundred years ago, it would have been OK for the world to stop for a day. But now we're all revving up our four-wheel-drive SUVs and going over giant snowbanks, and for what?''

So we can go to work and boast about how much shoveling we did, that's what.