Before I transferred here, I was at a college where the closest you ever got to snow was nasty sleet. I missed this fluffy white stuff practically as much as I missed my mommy (which was a lot). Oh, how romantic the snow is; it makes everything a little quieter, and who doesn’t want to kiss some tall, dark, and handsome in the snow? Well, not me! Kissing tall dark and handsomes in the snow is probably impossible here since the snow would just fly in your eye or a tree would dump hunks of snow down your back. And when you’re rushing to class, trying not to fall on your butt, snow gets pretty inconvenient.
It will not stop. That doesn’t mean I don’t like it – I grew up with feet of snow falling every winter – but it’s mid-March. And by mid-March there should be dry streets.
The campus is now crawling with snow coats. That’s what we’ve become: just snow coats rushing around. You can’t see faces, just little piles of the thickest clothes possible wandering about from class to class. Except, I suppose, nobody’s wandering. We’re sprinting (if you can even call it that, since we’re more waddling like gimpy, constipated, ducks).
And then there are the girls who have their cute little snow boots with the fur on the top and look like sexy little snow bunnies hopping around in the snow. It’s a little difficult to compete with that when all I care about is not getting punched in the eye by a snowflake. I’m always rushing around campus, looking all haggard, breathing heavily and grimacing. I’ll bet Julie Newmar never looked haggard in the snow. But I am, obviously, no Cat Woman.
By tomorrow it’ll probably be melting, which would be nice, except…it won’t be. It’ll get all squishy and slushy and horrible. The trees will start snowball (slush blob?) fights with pedestrians. Anyone who has ever gotten a glob of snow down the back of their coat knows how shocking and unpleasant the experience is: the snow hits and suddenly you’re wriggling around like a worm on ecstacy at a dance party.
Basically, snow is not a good look for me.