As you know, I am a proud, self-professed snow day lover. Students appreciate that about me. Amy and I have some of the same students, and they know both that we are friends and that we are of that rare breed of teacher that wears pajamas inside out the same nights they do. But today, even Amy and I are over it. Our shared sentiment these days is enough already. Or, as I said to her in an email today I can’t even get excited about it. That’s the sad thing. Here we are, the tee-hee girls, and we’re saying oh sh*t.
It’s not just about losing my April vacation (to San Diego! waah!), which the Board of Ed will begin truncating after three more snow days, which seems likely. In fact, it’s even possible for that to happen with this next “massive storm.” Nor is it only about wanting some regularity and routine in my life, and continuity with my classes. Or wanting to have conversations (or write posts) about something other than weather. I’m worried.
I’m worried about people and their roofs collapsing. I’m worried about people like my parents who handle their own snow removal, even though they’re strong like bulls, because it’s just too much to do. Even for them. I’m worried about safety—or lack of—on the roads, where taking a right on red is a daredevil maneuver—since you can’t see around corners with the snow piled higher than vehicles—and better avoided unless you have a death wish. Of course at intersections with stop signs, well, you’re on your own. You really need to take it s l o w and be extra careful…creeping out an inch at a time.
We’ve moved beyond winter, beyond New England winter, beyond wicked New England winter, beyond wicked New England winter on steroids. As oxymoronic as I know it is to say this about winter, a season, I say anyway: it just seems unnatural. Oddly, disconcertingly unnatural.