Snow. Swell. Do you actually *like* snow, or is it one big honking mess?
It snowed here in Philadelphia last night -- 2 inches of rich white slush that doesn't validate the 'Snow!' answer for this Reckoning, but is still plenty to make its presence felt.
In instances like these, it's hard to suppress my inner schoolkid, which immediately thinks "Holy smokes! Snow! Awesome! Maybe I'll get off of school tomorrow!"
But I'm not a schoolkid. I'm a 25-year-old man who hasn't even been in a position to get a snow day in ten years. Snow actually means misery. Slogging through gritty, car-sodded slush. Shoveling. Impromptu sidewalk ice-skating rinks. Lower back pain. Going to the supermarket and getting trampled by people wheeling out the entire milk and toilet-paper inventory.
Why is there still a glint of magic when the weather reports say snow? Perhaps because the world seems to stop when the snow falls. Perhaps because the snow is beautiful when it's still white and unperturbed. Perhaps because watching the snow fall through the window is one of the few times in this urbanity-choked modern life where we actually pause to think about our lives?
Tell me, Reckonauts! Do you still look forward to snow, or do you see it as a big, seething gray nuisance?