We woke this morning to a blue world — incredibly still, snow-covered, wracked with ice slapping against our windows. Everyone along the East Coast knew about the impending storm, and most of us spent last evening breathlessly anticipating the first few flakes . . . but by 10 p.m., nothing much was happening.
I had that familiar pang of disappointment left over from my days as a student — the one that accompanies epic snow predictions that ultimately result in . . . nothing. Our meteorologists in the D.C. area are notoriously off-base, but I can’t say I blame them. Things happen, you know. Storms shift course. Snow fails to fall. Classes resume.
But by 6 a.m., it was a different story. Spencer stirred first, stumbling to the window to peer through our thin curtains. The hill was glazed and frosted.
“How much?” I croaked.
“Not much,” he said. But I immediately asked for the “Maryland version,” knowing “not much” to my hardy New Yorker husband is pretty different from our standards.
It was much. Even the plow trucks weren’t out yet, our parking lot a drift of deep snow. But without my contacts, I had to take his word for it. I’m so blind in the morning.
When I could finally gauge the situation for myself, I decided to stay home. And it’s super strange. Between the violent ice crashing into our windows all night and the roads being far from passable now, I decided to take a vacation day and hunker down in our condo.
After all my big talk of never getting a snow day, it feels so weird to be home on a Thursday morning. We’re watching “Today” and its Olympic coverage, dreaming of balmy 60-degree temperatures in Sochi and staring at piles of dirty dishes. This isn’t a true snow day — the kind granted free-of-charge by a benevolent employer — but hey . . . I’ll still take it! And gratefully.
But . . . I’m trying to figure out what to do with myself. I’ve been up since 6:30. Faced with hours of freedom and seclusion, Spencer is working while I envision finally backing up years of photos, working on our wedding photo album, vacuuming, finishing The Heart Is Not a Size . . . or just clearing out the DVR, drinking tons of coffee and scraping this place into some semblance of organized.
This is the first snow day I’ve been snug in our condo, not at home with my parents and sister — and maybe that’s where my sense of nostalgia stems from. I’m thinking of our old snowmen, epic snowball fights, shoveling with Dad as we sweated through our winter coats. Here we have nothing to dig out save our cars, nowhere for snow forts. And though I’ve felt at home in my new space since my October move, there are still moments — sudden, overwhelming moments — when I feel 10 years old again, wondering how I got here. Where my snowman went.
But there will be more snowball fights and hot cocoa. It’s a gray day, but it’s a beautiful one . . .
. . . And it’s all mine.