Faithful readers (all two and a half of them) of this word receptacle will recall how I tend to wax romantic about snow days. That proclivity has not diminished; if anything, it's grown even stronger, inversely proportional to my aversion of late to all other things romantic. The snow day is the mistress of the status quo--an affair with one's regularly scheduled life, deliciously clandestine, like cheating time itself. Stolen solitude.
The snow hasn't yet begun, but the air is thick with an entire city's dread and/or excitement for the impending blizzard. They are already saying it will rival the storm of 2010, and I sure hope it does. I hope it starts snowing and never stops. I'm all set to hunker down and hibernate for a very long time. A leisurely morning of reading Bach partitas gave way to a high intensity gym session (bike+row+Shaun T should be the new Ironman, IMO). Now, fueled by Indian buffet and strong coffee, I've got some laundry going and am about to commence mopping and vacuuming. Practice, read, write, lather, rinse, repeat. I might organize my closet and do a clothing purge. I might finally get around to scrubbing the grout in my bathroom.
You see, I've got big plans.
I've got ingredients for tomato soup and grilled cheese on slices of homemade bread, and chocolate chip cookies, and mulled cider. There are plenty of candles in case the power goes out. Doesn't yoga by candlelight sound like just about the most yuppie activity you've ever heard of? Tant pis, because that might need to happen.
I could soliloquize on how the snow is a metaphor for blank slates and fresh starts and--as the first few flakes begin to flutter outside my window--is very much a representation of my ambitions for the coming year, but these comparisons are well-trod and I won't bore my 2.5 readers with my second rate attempts at allusion. Besides, it's time to toss the laundry in the dryer and carry on with my wintry tryst.