Tuesday, March 01, 2005
snow day
I am at the office. The snow storm is finally over and I am ill.
The illness part is actually not as dreadful as one would expect for if I consider that whether or not the company decided to close today and provide me with a much need snow day I would nonetheless be ill. Thus it is better to be unable to do anything good because one is work and in addition happen to be ill than it is to be home on a snowy day full of plans and enthusiasm and yet be unable to do anything solely due to illness.
Oh and I did have such plans. I was going to call up a boy I know; he revels in snow. Although he is not in the sort of industry that would hand down a snow day from on high were the fire hydrants buried under the white stuff to legal grave depth, I am mostly sure that this is his “weekend”. So, back to my plan: I would call him and arrange to meet somewhere near the Common. Perhaps I would pick up a cheap plastic toboggan along the way. We would bound out into the great drifted expanse, throw snowballs, slide and jump and tumble and rough-house and maybe tumble off a hill each held fast in the other’s grip until we roll to a stop laughing, snow in our hair, panting red face to red face, our laughter suddenly ebbs, eyes stare, noses move closer together, we kiss. Then one of us scrambles to his feet pulling the other up with an excited, “Come on,” and we run back up the hill. Later wet and cold and flushed with that healthy sort of exhaustion we head “home”. Free of boots and coats and random encrusted snow and ice we pile ourselves and the afghans and quilts on the couch, inhale the delicious steam of liquor laced cocoa and watch the kind of old movies that make you believe in love.
The illness part is actually not as dreadful as one would expect for if I consider that whether or not the company decided to close today and provide me with a much need snow day I would nonetheless be ill. Thus it is better to be unable to do anything good because one is work and in addition happen to be ill than it is to be home on a snowy day full of plans and enthusiasm and yet be unable to do anything solely due to illness.
Oh and I did have such plans. I was going to call up a boy I know; he revels in snow. Although he is not in the sort of industry that would hand down a snow day from on high were the fire hydrants buried under the white stuff to legal grave depth, I am mostly sure that this is his “weekend”. So, back to my plan: I would call him and arrange to meet somewhere near the Common. Perhaps I would pick up a cheap plastic toboggan along the way. We would bound out into the great drifted expanse, throw snowballs, slide and jump and tumble and rough-house and maybe tumble off a hill each held fast in the other’s grip until we roll to a stop laughing, snow in our hair, panting red face to red face, our laughter suddenly ebbs, eyes stare, noses move closer together, we kiss. Then one of us scrambles to his feet pulling the other up with an excited, “Come on,” and we run back up the hill. Later wet and cold and flushed with that healthy sort of exhaustion we head “home”. Free of boots and coats and random encrusted snow and ice we pile ourselves and the afghans and quilts on the couch, inhale the delicious steam of liquor laced cocoa and watch the kind of old movies that make you believe in love.
