From what Stuart likes to call my “high perch over the city” I can’t see the Empire State Building. Which is interesting only in that most days, I can. The snow, falling so quickly and in such grey light as it does, is rather hard to distinguish from here. Even with all my lights out and staring intently out the window, I can only see the flakes if I squint and look closely. Otherwise, it’s just a cottony grey fog that creates an eerie stage where some buildings still exist and some have fallen behind that curtain.
You’d think this was beautiful but all I can remember is how the slush feels under my feet, how horizontally the snow comes down Broadway, how my hair freezes in the mornings, how very grinchy this new fresh hell of winter wonderland makes me feel until I’m home safe and warm.
So fine. Here. I’ll admit to being sick of snow unless it’s prepared to do something for me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m fine with the blizzard roaring into full gear, settling her icy white petticoats, and staying a while, but only if that means that tomorrow morning, Michael Bloomberg will be encouraging me to stay home and my work phone will have that comforting automated message, “We are closed for the day”. I’m even prepared to answer work emails tomorrow, make calls to California, if it means I can do it from our couch, wrapped in our quilt, with a pot of tea in the Brown Betty handy at all times. If this were agreeable December, or even quiet hungover January, tomorrow would leave me blissfully home-bound. But it’s not. Tomorrow may be March, but today is still blasted February.
This is that home stretch of sickeningly boring snowy February, where we get about 6 to 10 inches, nothing drastic, nothing we can’t deal with, and nothing to stay home about. It’s the month that makes up for its shortened life span by dumping unwelcome unloved snow on us, once a week or so, just to remind us why we hate winter. It’s snow we can’t use an excuse for anything except bad moods and train delays. So we’ll all wake up tomorrow morning, look out at the snowy wonderland we can no longer bring ourselves to be elated by, and complaining all the way, kick and slip and curse our way to our subways, hold the hand rail too tightly because the steps are never clear enough, hold our noses at the wet-dog smell of the subway on a snowy morning, and actually look forward to getting into dry warm offices. Who among us can even appreciate the white hushed beauty of it anymore, knowing it won’t keep us home and it won’t leave us dry? Not me. I’ve played in my share, and now I’m officially tired of it. Which means it’s officially February. Even if tomorrow is March.
So I’m going to get out of here early, trudge home to Astoria, jostling my way among other annoyed or flustered New Yorkers, all of us wishing this was the first snow, wishing we still loved it, wishing it would up the ante and give us a snow day, or just wishing we were in Florida.

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