*Cue Marlon Brando in Street Car Name Desire*
I think I finally became an adult thanks to the winter storm Stella.
I used to love this time of year immensely. Gone were the pressures of the Christmas season to bake, shop, or force socialization with an overly conservative or liberal family. The uncertainty of Springs not-so-hot, not-so-cold weather hadn’t set in, making the meaningless action of choosing an outfit for the day the most daunting of tasks.
Seriously, Spring. Do I need to wear a jacket or not? Make up your damn mind.
Summer hadn’t rushed in with its unbearable heat and caused every to either feel sticky or dry or both at the same time.
No. Winter was my season.
When I was a kid, snow was perfect. It ,to me, represented innocence and peace. During a snow storm, before the plows and cars paint the snow an ugly brown color, everything is the most perfect calm. Everything looks simple. It brought with it the promise of snow days, days spent curling up in bed with a good book, sledding outside, and the icy breeze that made everything feel perfect, all while the scenery outside was blanketed completely with ice. It was absolutely perfect to me.
Then, during our most recent snow storm, it wasn’t.
“Is it honestly snowing again?” I asked myself with distain as I looked out my window at the two feet of snow on the ground with more of it dropping at about an inch or so an hour. They’d already cancelled work that day and travel bans popped up in almost every city across the state and a good portion of the northeastern US in general. There was nothing left to do except sit at watch everything get devoured in ice and snow. Normally, this scene would leave me in a state of absolute bliss. I’d sit on the couch sipping tea, just watching the snow fall and feeling a sense of peace. Instead, this storm brought with it a rather new feeling regarding old man winter.
I hated the snow, and that broke my heart.
This blizzard, or rather my reaction to it, scared me. I used to see snow as the most perfect, beautiful thing in the world. Instead of calming me, it filled me with overwhelming anxiety. The snow/slush covered roads would make it hard to travel for work. Accidents would happen. Work would be overwhelming as people would call due to the weather and inability to get out of their snow covered driveways.
I realized I stopped seeing snow as something magical and started seeing it as a nuisance of adulthood. Snow fall hindered driving, affected work. My childhood joy became my adult anxiety. I didn’t draw the joy from it I used to at all, and that got me to ask a question.
At what point do we stop believing in the magic of what we loved as children? The silly stupid jokes that made us laugh until milk came out our noses. The games we used to play. Books and movies we enjoyed.
Even sitting watching a snow storm?