We've had a lot of snow in Boston the last few weeks. We've basically been averaging a major snowstorm (> 12 inches of snow) a week for the last 4 weeks. And I've been excited about each one of them!
On the surface, this excitement is hard to explain. The snow mostly makes life in the city pretty inconvenient. Parking on my street is a disaster. Driving anywhere takes 3x as long as it should. Taking the T is pretty much out of the question. And my back has gotten pretty sore from shoveling on a weekly basis. Even Lenny is starting to get annoyed.
And yet, here I am, checking the Weather Channel every few hours in eager anticipation of the next Juno, Neptune, or Octavio (non sequitur within this non sequitur—the controversy surrounding the naming of winter storms is amazing. There's even a Facebook group!).
I think there is only one explanation: indelible joy. That is, joy felt so strongly in childhood that no amount of adult "common sense" can overpower it. And I for one, embrace it.
Growing up, there were few things in life quite as miraculous as a snow day. I distinctly remember the feeling of nervous excitement heading to bed on those glorious nights when snow was in the forecast (and it didn't take more than a couple of inches to close school in Maryland).
Mom was always under strict orders to wake us as soon as she heard anything. Somehow it felt very important to learn school was closed at 4:30am instead of at 7am. And of course if we woke up with no news, we would immediately start calling the recorded hotline, listening to the busy signal again and again as every other kid in the county did the same thing.
But boy, was it worth it. An unexpected day off of school. With sledding. Dog wrestling. Fort building. And snow football. Honestly, does it get any better than that?
The pure excitement in those memories is imprinted so clearly and profoundly that no amount of parking pain can turn me into a snow-hater. The joy is indelible.
Also, learning to love skiing helps.