Don't get me wrong.
I'm not hating on snow.
In fact, snow is pretty cool as long as I don't have to drive in it.
But when I was little, snow was
FUCKING AWESOME.
Snow days always began the same way. I would wake up at some unholy hour for school (back when I still thought getting up at 6 AM made me a total badass), and I'd stare out the window. Most days, there was absolutely nothing exciting going on outside. At this point, I would sulk around the house in a pitiful slump all morning, dragging my feet and getting dressed as slowly as possible, just in case some fleeting flakes would come down. In theory, this was probably a really dumb idea, because any snow that would've come at that point would be nowhere near enough to make any sort of impact on my ability to go to school that day....but I digress.
But on the mornings when I could see snow on the ground, it was on. Once the news confirmed that there would be no school on that day (and there never was, because this is Texas after all), I became a snow-crazed, attention deficit, hyperactive force of God made for nothing more than tearing into that snow like my entire existence was dependent on it.
But before I could barrage my way through the front door like Indiana Jones looking for the Crystal Skull, I had to endure the massive wardrobe session that came with being five years old and determined to trek through mountains of freezing cold slush for hours on end.
By the time I was decked out in layers upon layers of sweaters, jackets, sweatpants, boots, mittens, and any other various winter items I could find in my closet, I was hardly mobile. I should probably point out that I was insistent on dressing myself for these winter wonderland extravaganzas. The result was something akin to what I imagine my closet exploding would look like. But I was warm, and since I was five, my mother likely assumed it couldn't hurt anything to let me go out looking something like Rainbow Brite on crack.
When I would finally bust through the front door into the glorious, magnificent snow that I'd waited so long for, there was no stopping me. I made snow angels, snowmen, snowballs, snow forts -- if it could be fashioned from snow and required less than 3 minutes of my attention, I would create it. Every few minutes, my mother would peek out to check on us and make sure that in my hell bent attempts to conquer snow, I wasn't managing to get myself or my sister hurt. This was fine with me, because I had no intentions of hurting anyone. My only goal in life was to make that snow my bitch for as long as I could endure the cold wind whipping in my face and the melting snow seeping into my pant legs.
Inevitably, the constant sprinting across the yard tethered down by what was probably half my weight in clothing would tire me out. My sister and I would make one last attempt at snow angels before shaking the snow from our hair, pants, and sweaters.
The rest of the day would be consumed by hot chocolate, cartoons, and sleep. I wouldn't be able to feel my feet for the rest of the day. But those moments in the snow were so worth it. The front yard became a snow castle. And I was the snow queen.
UPDATE: Major kudos to my dad for hunting down this picture:
It gets (slightly) bigger if you click it. That's my sister on the left, me on the right. No, I'm not five in this picture. But you get the idea.
Champion wardrobe, self. Truly.
