Weather Retort

I hate winter. And I hate the snow. So on Sunday, I was sure that I had died and gone to hell when I awoke to piles of white sitting at the edges of my windowsill with a light sprinkle still falling. "New York region digs out of record snowstorm," read the headlines, but all I wanted was to dig deeper under my comforters. As a pack-a-day smoker, I love my butts, but I'd rather sift through yesterday's ashtray then face a walk to the store for a fresh pack.

I don't know where my hatred for the winter comes from (hey, maybe it's the cold), but I do know that once it hits everything takes double the time, thought and effort. How you dress, your mode of transportation, what you eat-everything suddenly becomes fraught. Dressing morphs into layering, a skill very few of us can nail. If you do muster enough energy to bother to dress, it's always either never enough or way too much. And then once you're inside, it's always too hot. You're fucked anyway you look at it.

As sure as the solstice comes my Seasonal Affect Disorder. I'm so glad generic depression has a name now! Instead of a freebie to hear the Silver Jews, I'm lying in a fetal position on the couch, eating stale Fig Newtons and watching "Celebrity Fit Club" reruns. I find myself playing endless matches of Internet backgammon.

So when I say that I hate the winter, what I really mean is that I hate what it does to me. Snow is an added insult, salt on the wound, icing on the cake.

This winter was especially cruel by lulling me into a false sense of security with such a long spate of temperate weather. Maybe it's unnatural to walk around in a jean jacket in the middle of January, maybe it's a sign of the coming Apocalypse. But at least I don't have two pairs of pants on to prevent my legs from going numb. It took some time for my dread of the cold weather to subside and once it did I started enjoying being out and about. Which made me doubly unprepared for what we got Sunday morning.

I farted around all day. I wished for all of the salt in a thousand Happy Meals to be dumped on the streets.

Slowly as the day went by, my thoughts turned to the white.

Maybe it was the images on the news of kids flying down hills, calls filled with screams of glee from friends walking outside, the slow descent of winter that has made it an easier transition and better prepared me for the worst. Or maybe it was my dire need for a whole cigarette. But I started having thoughts of jumping out of buildings into snowdrifts and traveling down icy streets. Cabin fever had set in.

Once b.f. Glenn got back from his job, I had plans of a midnight walk. The desolate streets of Midtown at that hour make for a smoother introduction to the snow. Bundled in a parka, fisherman's coat, two pairs of pants, Doc Martins and tube socks, I was ready to face the white stuff. I was even able to enjoy the white coated awnings and eerie stillness.

From there we walked stoned and aimless. The streets were eerily quiet. This must be what a neutron bomb explosion feels like. Soon enough, we found ourselves at Grand Central. The always busy, frantic vibe had been replaced by the massive stillness of the beautiful architecture and soaring classicism.

We'd heard rumors of an area inside the terminal where whispers into corners could traverse the ceilings and land in your partner's ear. This would be the perfect time to test the Whispering Walls. A hatless jolly cop sat behind a desk. If anyone knew the secrets of this landmark it would have to be him.

Before I could say anything more than, "You know that area where you talk to the walls?" he pointed me to a corner and told me his kids love visiting Dad just for that reason.

We walked up city streets empty except for snowplows and the occasional cross-country skier. The trucks moved snow into mountains on the sidewalks. As we stepped along, the grounds seemed to be shifting: continental drifts and tectonic plates right before our eyes.

We did ballerina leaps across oceans, gray water and slush. We nimbly walked over continents, avoiding ice that looked too shiny. Glenn got cocky and tried hurdling over a mountain, only to trip and barely miss getting hit by another snowplow. We took it slow after that. The excitement of racing against shifting continents made us less eager to get back home. As we got to my block we decided hitting up Kinko's would be a proper end to our adventurous night.

Not knowing where else to go that would be open, we visited a Kinko's, where a a middle-aged couple was debating the existence of God. A 22-ounce can of King Cobra was stashed next to her feet alongside a handful of plastic bags tied into neat bundles. She cut and pasted from old newspapers as the man droned on. He screamed, "Only a small busload of women will make it to heaven, while the rest of them will go you know where, hell!" He stomped away, sat with his own stack of papers and continued the conversation with himself.

Hungry and warm, we headed home, with a pack of smokes in my coat pocket and, yes, a smile on my face.

I still hate winters but this snowy night wasn't bad. Not bad at all.