Snow Day & Losing My Religion
When I was a kid, I used to think that if I showed patience and waited for my mother to come into my room and tell me whether there would be school for the day, that I would be rewarded with a snowday. Don't ask me why, but I believed, I guess in some weird way, that I controlled the superintendent, and, apparently, the snow. But the thing is, I never showed patience. I would always wake up and have to - just HAVE to - tiptoe to my window, lift up the shade, and see.... pavement. Grass. No snow.
Then, the worst thing would happen: I'd go back to my bed and have, like, twenty minutes to sleep. And I would lie there, completely awake for the first fourteen of the minutes, and then, when I only had about six minutes to go, I'd get all tired again. And I would hate myself for having to get up a half hour ago to check the stupid window, and I'd be sure I'd jinxed myself, and then I'd be in a bad mood all day.
The only thing that could possibly be more troubling than no snow would be some snow. Don't ask me why, I'm probably like the only freak out there, but I really didn't like school delays that much. See, I would get up at 6 whatever, then I would have either a half hour, hour, or 90 minutes to sleep in. But I wouldn't be able to fall asleep until about twenty minutes to go. Then I'd be so off schedule, I'd freak out about whether I was going to be late. And I'd always be afraid of falling and my mom always wanted me to wear boots and a hat and all and I had to tell her that juniors in high school didn't do that. The worst ones were the 90 minute delays, because I had some complete mental breakdown and could never add 90 minutes to my wake up or breakfast time to calculate when I would have to get all that stuff done. So basically, I had extreme anxiety over snow delays.
I did love snow days, just like every kid. The kids in my neighborhood used to go sledding in the backyard of one of our neighbor's houses. The hill was actually pretty steep. I'm still surprised that our parents didn't freak out at us, because there were trees everywhere that we could pretty easily run into, and if we had, this story would become completely horrible. (Oh wait, listen to this: in class the other day, my TA was telling this story about a student she helped. She goes on and on about how much he improved in reading, and everyone was thinking about how great this was. And she says, "Yeah, he was a real success story... I mean, apart from the fact that he was murdered... it was good, you know." WHAT? All of us in the class tried hard not to laugh, but come on. Really. My professor goes, "Well, other than that Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?" I love that line.) Anyway, so the sledding was pretty fun.
The only thing about snow days is that as I got older, I had to go out and shovel. My mom would get so mad at me if I wasn't shoveling correctly. I don't know how you can mess up shoveling, but I guess I did. My sister though, she would never shovel. Even when she got older, she never would. That really got me mad. In fact, it still does. When I was little though, I liked shoveling and would shovel with my little red Minnie Mouse shovel. I bet my father loved that I would just go around to the sides of the driveway and shovel by taking little chunks of snow and putting them back onto the black pavement. I was a real genius.
I don't really have any other snow memories, except for last year when I went to West Hartford one night with my mother and a sudden snowstorm came on, and I swore at least fifteen times that night that I was going to die. I have never really believed in praying, but I was seriously contemplating starting at that moment. My mom just panics when it's time to drive in snow or ice, and in her defense, everywhere we looked cars were spinning out and crashing. So my mom's like freaking out and then I'm freaking out and so I say to her, "I'm going to talk to God, okay?" And she looked at me like I was a freaking weirdo. Seriously, if we were not about to die, my guess is she would have really given it to me for saying such a weird thing. Anyhow, I said outloud, "So God, I know I haven't really talked to you before or anything, but I think now's a good time. Tell you what. I'd like to get home. Make a grilled cheese. See the Sox win. Okay? Great." And my mother just about killed me. "That is NOT FUNNY!" she started yelling at me. I couldn't tell if she was yelling because she thought yelling would make her feel better or if she was seriously considering the freak that she was in the car with. But either way, she wasn't happy. I also called a friend of mine and told her I was going to die most likely, and that she should get a box from my room and dispose of it before anyone saw its contents. My friend was really good about it though. She asked me if she could have my CD collection. The thing is, I'm pretty sure she was joking, because I don't even have a real CD collection; I have like a dozen horrible CDs from when I was like twelve. The only person with a worse CD collection than me is Amanda. She would have to pay someone to store those suckers for her. I once rode to Vermont listening to the Best of 1981 and James Taylor's Greatest Hits. Unbelievably painful.
Anyway, the point of the story above is that praying works, I guess, because I got home alive and I seriously thanked God like a bazillion times on the way home. I haven't really talked to the Big Guy since. I think it's because my mom got pretty upset at me when I started telling God that even though I didn't really think his son was as significant as some, I would do my best to respect him more and stop saying "Jesus Christ" in response to every annoying thing that happens.
That hasn't happened. I bet every single Bible thumper or really, any Christian is probably rightfully offended at what I just wrote. I can't believe I did. Right now, I'm considering going back and changing it all. The only thing is, I don't know that it's all for me. I mean, you believe what you believe, I'll say what I want to say, I'll respect what you want me to. I really will. That's my PC ending so I don't get any crosses showing up on my doorstep. I told my roommate that I was afraid of Jesus and she tortured me by putting Jesus stamps in my bed and in my drawers. She thought it was pretty funny until I started putting pictures of boobs in her books, so that when she got to class, they'd fall out on the desk.
Anyway, I had an original point to this whole rambling mess, but I'm too tired to write it effectively and build up to it, so I'll just lay it out there: if people really wanted to see more kindness and happiness in this world, they would declare snow days more often. I'm looking outside now (okay, wait, now I just did) and I'm telling you, there's something to it, with the streets all white and covered nicely and nobody outside. It's like everything's quiet and still, after this huge storm. And even when it was all coming down like crazy, it's something to see. I love it anyhow. I think I really do.
Then, the worst thing would happen: I'd go back to my bed and have, like, twenty minutes to sleep. And I would lie there, completely awake for the first fourteen of the minutes, and then, when I only had about six minutes to go, I'd get all tired again. And I would hate myself for having to get up a half hour ago to check the stupid window, and I'd be sure I'd jinxed myself, and then I'd be in a bad mood all day.
The only thing that could possibly be more troubling than no snow would be some snow. Don't ask me why, I'm probably like the only freak out there, but I really didn't like school delays that much. See, I would get up at 6 whatever, then I would have either a half hour, hour, or 90 minutes to sleep in. But I wouldn't be able to fall asleep until about twenty minutes to go. Then I'd be so off schedule, I'd freak out about whether I was going to be late. And I'd always be afraid of falling and my mom always wanted me to wear boots and a hat and all and I had to tell her that juniors in high school didn't do that. The worst ones were the 90 minute delays, because I had some complete mental breakdown and could never add 90 minutes to my wake up or breakfast time to calculate when I would have to get all that stuff done. So basically, I had extreme anxiety over snow delays.
I did love snow days, just like every kid. The kids in my neighborhood used to go sledding in the backyard of one of our neighbor's houses. The hill was actually pretty steep. I'm still surprised that our parents didn't freak out at us, because there were trees everywhere that we could pretty easily run into, and if we had, this story would become completely horrible. (Oh wait, listen to this: in class the other day, my TA was telling this story about a student she helped. She goes on and on about how much he improved in reading, and everyone was thinking about how great this was. And she says, "Yeah, he was a real success story... I mean, apart from the fact that he was murdered... it was good, you know." WHAT? All of us in the class tried hard not to laugh, but come on. Really. My professor goes, "Well, other than that Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?" I love that line.) Anyway, so the sledding was pretty fun.
The only thing about snow days is that as I got older, I had to go out and shovel. My mom would get so mad at me if I wasn't shoveling correctly. I don't know how you can mess up shoveling, but I guess I did. My sister though, she would never shovel. Even when she got older, she never would. That really got me mad. In fact, it still does. When I was little though, I liked shoveling and would shovel with my little red Minnie Mouse shovel. I bet my father loved that I would just go around to the sides of the driveway and shovel by taking little chunks of snow and putting them back onto the black pavement. I was a real genius.
I don't really have any other snow memories, except for last year when I went to West Hartford one night with my mother and a sudden snowstorm came on, and I swore at least fifteen times that night that I was going to die. I have never really believed in praying, but I was seriously contemplating starting at that moment. My mom just panics when it's time to drive in snow or ice, and in her defense, everywhere we looked cars were spinning out and crashing. So my mom's like freaking out and then I'm freaking out and so I say to her, "I'm going to talk to God, okay?" And she looked at me like I was a freaking weirdo. Seriously, if we were not about to die, my guess is she would have really given it to me for saying such a weird thing. Anyhow, I said outloud, "So God, I know I haven't really talked to you before or anything, but I think now's a good time. Tell you what. I'd like to get home. Make a grilled cheese. See the Sox win. Okay? Great." And my mother just about killed me. "That is NOT FUNNY!" she started yelling at me. I couldn't tell if she was yelling because she thought yelling would make her feel better or if she was seriously considering the freak that she was in the car with. But either way, she wasn't happy. I also called a friend of mine and told her I was going to die most likely, and that she should get a box from my room and dispose of it before anyone saw its contents. My friend was really good about it though. She asked me if she could have my CD collection. The thing is, I'm pretty sure she was joking, because I don't even have a real CD collection; I have like a dozen horrible CDs from when I was like twelve. The only person with a worse CD collection than me is Amanda. She would have to pay someone to store those suckers for her. I once rode to Vermont listening to the Best of 1981 and James Taylor's Greatest Hits. Unbelievably painful.
Anyway, the point of the story above is that praying works, I guess, because I got home alive and I seriously thanked God like a bazillion times on the way home. I haven't really talked to the Big Guy since. I think it's because my mom got pretty upset at me when I started telling God that even though I didn't really think his son was as significant as some, I would do my best to respect him more and stop saying "Jesus Christ" in response to every annoying thing that happens.
That hasn't happened. I bet every single Bible thumper or really, any Christian is probably rightfully offended at what I just wrote. I can't believe I did. Right now, I'm considering going back and changing it all. The only thing is, I don't know that it's all for me. I mean, you believe what you believe, I'll say what I want to say, I'll respect what you want me to. I really will. That's my PC ending so I don't get any crosses showing up on my doorstep. I told my roommate that I was afraid of Jesus and she tortured me by putting Jesus stamps in my bed and in my drawers. She thought it was pretty funny until I started putting pictures of boobs in her books, so that when she got to class, they'd fall out on the desk.
Anyway, I had an original point to this whole rambling mess, but I'm too tired to write it effectively and build up to it, so I'll just lay it out there: if people really wanted to see more kindness and happiness in this world, they would declare snow days more often. I'm looking outside now (okay, wait, now I just did) and I'm telling you, there's something to it, with the streets all white and covered nicely and nobody outside. It's like everything's quiet and still, after this huge storm. And even when it was all coming down like crazy, it's something to see. I love it anyhow. I think I really do.
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