If I could do this to real snowflakes, I would. (If you can’t tell what’s going on in this picture, here’s a hint: NOM NOM NOM.) To say that I like snow is a gross understatement, and should send my already adequately-endowed nose into the land of fairytale French prince, a la Pinocchio. I don’t just like snow, I LIKE-like snow. I luuuuuuuuv snow. I want to MARRY it. (Unfortunately this is still not legal, even in Mexico, and not because those in Central America don’t know what it is.)
I love snow with the fire of a thousand suns slavish adoration generally reserved for new toys or one’s Twuuu Wuuuuv in junior high. I ❤ it a little more than people who ski, and a little less than people working in the Christmas card industry. Despite the fact that I went to college in Michigan, I really haven’t lived anywhere that got much snow. The middle of Indiana is far more likely to be dismally gray and uneventful than anything, even meteorogically. (Which is totally a word. Shut up, spellcheck. That you don’t like, but “Twuuu Wuuuv” is fine? WTF?) Here in Ohio, it really isn’t that different from Indiana or Michigan (sorry to disappoint, sports fans, but they might as well be the same state, along with Illinois). Which is to say, when it does snow, it’s either a dusting that melts away once the sun (or more likely, rain) hits it, or a whole mess of snow that shuts down the city for a few days. And in most cases, four+ inches is enough.
Maybe I associate snow with not having to go to school/work. Maybe I subconsciously want to live in a place where there is a lot of snow regularly, and heat my farmhouse with fragrant wood, and look out over the frozen lake with a hot mug of something as Northern Lights flicker over the crisp snow. Somehow I manage to gloss over the realities of such a life, like months of shoveling paths, chopping and drying wood, frigid mornings until the fire is tended, and of course, being stuck in the house (and possibly without electricity) for days and days. But naturally, that isn’t what I dream about when it snows.
Somehow when I dream, I picture myself alone in a cabin (besides the cats), not a wife and mother. Money doesn’t enter into the picture, nor does diet, fashion, health, or love. Just me, myself and I, a handful of lazy cats, some yarn, a book, a fire, a blanket, a hot cuppa, and a gentle snowfall blanketing the evergreens outside my chic picture window. Contentment. Calm. Quiet.
Gone are the days when I thought the height of hopes and dreams lay in a big city with a big salary, house, wardrobe and circle of friends. Is this what growing up is like? Or is this just learning what I really want?