Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Blame it on the Blizzard

Tomorrow it going to be a snow day. 17 inches make it's a snow day, whether or not work/school/your parole office choose to acknowledge this is their own business, but mentally it will be a snow day for all. I have a few gut instincts when it comes to being shut it for an entire day that I can trace back to my childhood...

1) Have a slumber party. Find the only friend who lives within snowshoeing distance, stay up all night long playing Mario, discussing the qualities you desire in a man and eventually bleaching your hair on accident.
2) Wear your mom's black and white polka dot mega 80s snowsuit to sled off your roof, build a snowman out of the annoying neighbor's frozen body and catch acid snowflakes on your tongue.
3) TV marathon including but not limited to Price is Right, The View and Passions.
4) Write short stories and poetry for extra credit in your English class (me, 7th grade, no joke).
5) Make an overly elaborate list of things you could do with the big day and then instantly blow them all to focus on your true calling: staring at the ceiling. By 7pm you realize the lost opportunity and try to make up for it by staying up all night.

As an adult (this is arguable) I'm supposed to be worried about lost wages, dangerous roads and the "inconvenience" of the storm. Americans work through sickness, loss and bad weather. A little cold? Have some orange juice. Your father passed away? Work to get your mind off it. Impassable roads? You've got four wheel drive and a shovel. No worker ever starts with the hope of losing their health, family members or sanity at the expensive of a pay check, but do the choices me make accurately reflect our values? At what point did we become more committed to our jobs than our relationships?

Tonight, I choose to embrace the child in me; she generally makes better choices and has a more radical fashion sense. I will bounce up and down every time someone utters "snow day" and will anxiously anticipate the possibility of a tomorrow filled with beautiful nothingness. Staring out the window, here I come.