We all know the feeling. Strolling into your seventh hour class, butterflies in your stomach, you silently pray that the coming snowstorm is big enough to cancel school the next day. The announcements come on and everyone holds their breath, waiting for the big news.
Except the announcement didn’t come. Disappointed groans are let out and we sit down at our desks for another 45 minutes of history class. Mid-lecture, whispers float through the back of the room and someone lets out an excited squeal. The rest of the class looks around, wondering what the commotion is about, and that’s when the great news spreads: a snow day has already been called for the next day and the announcement was (not so secretly) posted on the school’s website. I made one solid fist pump in the air, the only appropriate way to celebrate the victory.
And so it began. I’m not sure if it was the cold weather or the sheer thrill of knowing I didn’t have school the next day, but I definitely started to tear up as in the parking lot leaving school that afternoon.
The news stations continued to flood with reports of the two feet of snow that were slowly making their way towards Kansas City. I started to feel like a little kid awaiting Santa on Christmas Eve as I looked forward to the falling snowflakes. I made sure to complete the totally necessary snow dance – a series of fist pumps and body bumps and fell asleep with dreams of snowflakes dancing in my head.
I woke up every hour that night to peek out the window, only to be disappointed when there was not a single flake on the ground. I started to accept defeat somewhere around 3 a.m. and tried to remember if I had missed a step of my snow dance and was being punished with no snow at all. Thankfully, the odds were in my favor and I awoke to a blanket of white covering my backyard. Quite clearly, my snow dance worked and I take full credit for this entire snowstorm.
The only thing that made me crawl out of bed, where I had planned to spend a good majority of the day, was the smell of bacon downstairs. I think my parents strategically connected the vent in my bedroom to the vent in the kitchen, because they knew that the only way to help me wander out of bed is food.
I ate my breakfast in awe of the amount of snow we had gotten in the time that I had given up on the snow to the time I was awoken by the sweet scent of bacon. I couldn’t remember the last time Kansas City had had that much snow. My blind and deaf dog couldn’t even make it out the backdoor without slamming into a pile of snow. And the piles of snow were HUGE.
More in awe than me, however, were the Chilean exchange students, who had never seen snow on the ground before. They were jumping up and down with excitement and wanted to play outside immediately.
I, however, am not the first to want to go play in the snow. I would be a much happier camper if it snowed in the 80 degree July heat. But no. It doesn’t. I love LOOKING at the snow from the inside of my warm, heated house with a fire burning and my pajamas on. Anything that involves actually going outside into the cold? No thanks.
Given that it felt like the Arctic outside, I wasn’t exactly thrilled that I had to suit up in my snow armor and make a trek out my backdoor. I was perfectly content laughing at my dad shiver while trying to clear our driveway while I sat in my cozy bathrobe. Sue me.
I was guilt-tripped into taking one for the team because “Chileans never see snow.” Whatever. Also, another complaint: How come they don’t make cute snow clothes? Or if they do, why don’t I own them? I looked like the abominable snowman walking outside in my mom’s old 80’s snow coat and puffy snow pants.
An impromptu snowball fight was called to action and I curled into a ball on the ground to avoid getting pelted with snow. Have I mentioned that I hate the cold?
After the snowball fight that I took no part in commenced, my mom suggested we head over to Suicide Hill to sled. If you have never heard of Suicide Hill, you probably never had a childhood. It’s the place to be for all the cool kids on snow days. Although we had been advised not to be on the roads if we didn’t have to be, my mom, being the daredevil that she is, decided to ignore that advice and drive us to Suicide Hill anyway. It’s only a two block drive. Daredevil.
Throughout the course of the four snow days, it became clear that the streets were not an issue compared to the issue of actually getting down my driveway. Our garage sits atop a circle drive. Not any circle drive, but a steep, sloping hill. Not exactly a good driveway to be backing out onto in the snow. If we could get the car out of the driveway, the streets would be a piece of cake.
I held my breath as our car started to slide towards a huge snow bank, knowing that if we got stuck there we would never make it out. I admit I was secretly hoping we would get stuck so I wouldn’t have to go sledding. But we made it. Joy.
My mom decided to drop us at the bottom of Suicide Hill. THE BOTTOM. As in, I had to walk all the way up to the top. Suicide Hill should be renamed to Suicide Do-Not-Climb-It’s-Actually-A-Mountain. Seriously, I will be the first to propose an escalator or ski lift be put in there because I could barely breathe by the time I got to the top but tried not to show it because the five year old who had walked up next to me was not having any issues.
I almost broke down into tears when I remembered that the whole point of being here was to sled, which meant I would have to walk back up the hill again. I only sled down once and I am quite certain had I tried to sled down any more I would have gone into cardiac arrest. (If anyone wants to get me a gym membership, I think it may be beneficial.)
After what felt like 10 years, my mom finally showed up to take us home. I rejoiced while I stripped off my wet snow clothes and put my pajamas back on. The sledding incident wiped me out for the rest of the day… and the entire snow day after that.
The remainder of my snow days were spent under multiple blankets with hot chocolate and Netflix becoming my best friends. And I couldn’t have been happier. At one point, my Netflix stopped working (the feeling of Netflix not working is probably pretty close to what the end of the world will feel like). I didn’t know what to do with myself.
I resorted to teaching myself to play Rihanna’s new song “Stay” on the piano. I don’t even know how to play piano. I have a newfound respect for people who sing and play an instrument at the same time because it’s not easy. Maybe if I had taken a piano class before it would have been a little bit easier, but what else are you supposed to do when you’re snowed into your house and Netflix isn’t working?
The next two snow days were spent doing more of the same: movies, hot chocolate, sleep. High points of my time included eating an entire box of bagel bites, watching an entire season of Grey’s Anatomy and reciting the entire Dictionary front to back (just kidding).
The snow days came to a close and before I knew it, I was laying out my uniform for school the next morning. I had almost forgotten how to wear clothes other than pajama pants. It was a low moment in my life. I returned to school and the hopeful wishing returned for another snow day. Although, you won’t find me complaining, because four days off of school in under two weeks was pretty good (and extremely unproductive) for me.