Due to recent weather conditions, I’ve spent a lot of time sitting around, reflecting on stuff. One thing in particular has been on my mind–my failed relationship with snow. Our love was promising, but it couldn’t last. I’ll start from the beginning.
I am in kindergarten. This is my first blizzard, and it is thrilling. We get out of school early! My brother and I put on our full body snowsuits and go out to play. Within a minute I (accidentally!!) hit him in the face with a snowball and he starts to cry. Mom is mad, we go inside.
We have another snowstorm. I run outside completely naked, and, for good measure, sit down in the snow. I love snow! Our neighbor walks by during my performance, looks at my dad, and says, “You next.”
Another blizzard! I love snow! My siblings and I jump around the living room to celebrate school being cancelled. We put snowballs in the freezer to save for later.
My brother and I put on our snowsuits to play in the yard. We pretend the blossoming trees are actually covered in snow. Did I mention I love snow?
I am in 5th grade, on the verge of my angsty teenage years. I feel obligated to go out and play in the snow to make the most of my last days of childhood. Also, I am an artist and must express myself. Inspired by Calvin and Hobbes, I make a lot of mutant snowmen. I may or may not still save snowballs in the freezer.
During my junior year of high school, we have two spectacular blizzards almost back to back. I’m from D.C., which is really not the south, though some New Englanders are convinced otherwise. It snows there every winter, without fail. With the snow comes a bizarre winter amnesia in which everyone forgets how to drive, all the snow plows are somehow misplaced, and the government closes. At home, 1-2 feet of snow means a guaranteed week off school. I have to sleep over at a friend’s house two nights in a row because the roads are so bad (read: because I am drunk on her parents’ booze). I reconnect with my snow-nudist roots and go sledding in my bathing suit, which I think is a pretty cool and very original thing to do. The cold never bothered me anyway!
I was told I’d get a taste of real winter up in Providence. My freshman year, this does not prove to be the case. “It’s really not that bad,” I scoff. If I started to build an igloo, I would finish it.
It really is that bad. Every day on campus I pass splatters of vomit perfectly preserved in the snow piles. I am reminded unpleasantly of the ice man, and can only hope these remnants of college life don’t take after him and last for thousands of years. After months of walking only where the shoveled paths dictate, I begin to doubt the existence of free will. Road salt destroys all my shoes. I don’t love snow, and there’s no way I’m building an igloo.
It’s kind of funny to think that not so long ago I felt compelled to get out there and take advantage of every snowy day. Even in high school, I always made a point to at least go sledding. Growing up, blizzards were such a fun event that I remember every single one. Now, I don’t even remember every blizzard in the past two weeks. I wish a foot of snow still meant a week without class, and above all, I miss my snowsuit.