I can still remember nights like last night when I was younger. Around nine o'clock, after taking a shower and having my mom help to dry my hair, because I didn't have the patience to do it all myself, I would snuggle into cute, matching flannel pajamas and climb into bed. I would leave my blinds open enough to see just below the streetlight that stands tall outside my window. Even though my mother would come in, kiss me goodnight and wish me sweet dreams, I'd lie awake for hours watching the small flurries of a light mid-winter snow dance from the sky to the empty street. I'd watch the snow under the streetlight most of all, because there I could get the most accurate sense of just hard how the flakes were coming down and just how big they were.
Sometimes, I'd think the snow fall was getting steadier, so I'd quietly hop out of bed, tiptoe down our creaky stairs, and open the kitchen drawer in search of a spoon. When I clutched the cold metal in my hand, I would sneak my way back up and jam the spoon beneath both of my pillows. I'd quickly undress, shivering ever so slightly, to turn my pajamas inside out and then I'd hop back into bed as though I'd never arranged for any superstitious acts to occur.
I did all of this in hopes for a great big snow fall, in hopes of a snow day. I followed this silly, childhood traditions with the idea that in the morning, I'd get to sleep later and then dress in my gigantic pink snow-proof pants to sled and build snowmen.
Now, I have no doubt that I have grown up, because snow falls are no longer magical. They are just a pain in the ass.
I hate seeing the first flurries glide down from a gray sky. I immediately groan and wait for the snow shower to follow. I have to go outside fifteen minutes earlier than I would have in clear weather to brush the irritating white powder from the windows and the roof of my car. I have to drive to work or school 25 miles per hour the entire way, getting angry as the person with a gargantuan SUV with four wheel drive follows about an inch and a half behind me because their truck can navigate the snow better than my Ford Taurus. I have to sit on the edge of my seat the whole trip, praying that I don't have to stop short and find a Suburban in my trunk.
I hate having to dress in five layers of clothes to take a shovel that, when filled with snow, is much to heavy for my one hundred and ten pound self. My dad used to do the shoveling. Now, he works too much. He's not home to get the shoveling done, and my 17 year old brother always seems to have massive amounts of homework on the days the driveway is covered in this evil white stuff. I come in soaked, with a back ache, just dying for a massage that no one will give me.
I hate that when the first few flurries begin to fall, everyone and their mother comes to the grocery store, backing up the lines and then yelling at me because they have to wait to purchase they're milk, bread and eggs. I don't know what it is about snowstorms that makes everyone feel like they need French Toast. With modern technology people, you will not be snowed in. Worse comes to worst, you can survive a day or two without a sandwich. I'm sure you have nine million different things in your freezer just waiting to be defrosted. No one has ever died from lack of peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
The magic of snow is gone. It is one of my worst enemies. And it's not like I can go play in it, either. I haven't been able to find a pair of pink snow-proof pants in my size anytime recently. Bah humbug, snow.