New York is beautiful when it snows, if only for a moment. If you're very lucky, and awake at 4am, you might get a glimpse of this winter wonderland. Central park in a cloak of white. Giant flakes highlighted by flickering street lights. And quiet streets. No buses, no cabs, just a coating of white blurring streets and sidewalks.
But, chances are you will rarely have the opportunity to view new york in its winter splendor. By the time day breaks, the white glistening snow has been replaced with dirt colored slush. You'll debate between your hunters and uggs for 30 minutes before choosing wrong and venturing out for the messy commute. By the time you finally arrive at the office, with wet hair and slush covered pants you'll be so bitter that you managed to drag yourself into work that you won't actually accomplish a damn thing all day. Some people invoke arbitrary casual fridays on what they'd deem a snow day; showing up in jeans and snow boots and daring someone to say something. Others dress the part but spend the entire day complaining and cursing teachers.
When we were kids, a prediction of snow meant endless possibilities, but most important was the possibility of a school closing. Despite your parents' warnings, you'd stay up late, the anticipation of a day off keeping you awake. In the morning you'd run into your parents bedroom or down to the kitchen and turn on the radio. Those moments waiting for the deejay to announce your fate were some of the longest in your short life. Once they got through the closings if your school wasn't mentioned you'd insist there was a mistake. You'd refuse to accept defeat and wait out the next round assuming you must have missed it or your school was a late arrival to the list or even though every other school was listed alphabetically yours was an exception. You'd wait impatiently for the announcement that your school was closed so you could run back to your bed for more glorious sleep or head straight for the television and watch morning cartoons or waste no time by breaking out your toys. The world was your oyster those days. The biggest question was how to spend your time until you finally hit the snow. For hours. Building snowmen, forts, making snow angels, having snowball fights and returning to the house only when it was time for some hot cocoa.
As adults we don't get snow days. Not unless you're a teacher or the storm is especially severe and the roads have been declared too dangerous to drive on. In Manhattan, we don't drive. We have one of the most comprehensive and impressive subway systems in the nation. This means, unless you've made the tragic mistake of moving to a suburb, offices in manhattan generally do not proclaim snow days or encourage you to work remotely and you have no excuse but to begrudgingly set out for work. Despite this reality, when the forecast calls for a blizzard, New York prepares for a disaster. And as a result, we prepare for these unlikely snow days. We email ourselves documents, frantically send emails out the night before, bring items home, and worst of all, we get excited. The bigger the hype the harder the fall. A winter storm advisory sends the city into a panic but often its much ado about nothing. Mother Nature is such a tease.
Generally, the only times the snow affects our plans is to ruin them. Whether it results in a cancelled flight or simply the obligation to wear a bad outfit, our snowstorm anticipation has been replaced with snowstorm anxiety. And, so, in adulthood snow has become a nuisance rather than a joy. Today, I complain after a 20 minute walk to work in the winter. Being outside for 4 blocks induces complaints of frostbite. My younger self would be appalled. I welcome snow only when paired with my skis and the promise of a lodge. New Yorkers have even gone so far as to carry umbrellas when its snowing during their commute. A phenomenon I refuse to accept and will never take part in. I grew up upstate, no one would be caught dead carrying an umbrella in the snow. I'm embarrassed on behalf of these people and yet they're embarrassed on behalf of me when I'm forced to sport my frizzy mane the rest of the day. So, while some might view it as a pick your poison, either way you'll look foolish debate, I'd suggest there is little to debate, an umbrella is for the rain, period, don't be a douche. Of course, the moral of the story is that frizzy mane could have of course, been spared in the first place, had Mother Nature just done her job and Mayor B just declared a snow emergency, granting us one of those magical snow days...
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