Snow Day

I slept in, by which I mean 6:02 a.m.. Overnight, the snow had mixed with sleet and freezing rain. Statewide, schools and businesses were closed.

Our town plows are driven by hooligans, recreationally, like they are finally living out their third grade Monster Truck fantasy. One lone plow comprised the only traffic on our street, rumbling back and forth like a coked-up metronome.

It seemed I would not be leaving the house. I imagined reading poetry, setting my mind and body to one discrete endeavor. I wanted to behave like I hope people think I would: effortlessly immersed, a Zen study in focus.

Instead, I wandered around the house talking to Charlie the dog and myself before going downstairs to vacuum up the spiders in the basement. After that, I fixed a second breakfast or pre-lunch and went online to purchase a pair of shoes and a scarf on sale. I forgot about the poem act until I started folding laundry. I hated to admit it, but I was flunking elevated snow day.

It was just after noon when I got antsy. I rustled up a heap of sour sweaters that weren’t going to dry clean themselves and went out to the car.

I took a moment to survey the glazed landscape. Was going to Ted’s Cleaners the hill I was willing to die on? I asked myself, and I meant that quite literally, since Ted’s is at the bottom of a very steep hill. No, I decided. No.

Instead, I read a poem. It was about happiness and I won’t spoil for us by going into it. The day I imagined for myself aside, the freedom to flit felt like its own kind of gift. I was, ultimately, the perfect snow day, with absolutely nothing to show for it.