You would think, as a Canadian and stuff, that I would be accustomed to large gusts of snow blowing in my face. But no. It never gets easier. And I never seem to learn that proper footwear makes a hell of a difference.
You see, I left my more appropriate footwear back in Canada because, as I told my mother before I left, New York barely gets snow. Hah. So there I was, slipping and sliding five blocks to the post office and Starbucks in a pair of Frye boots... probably the sturdiest, most winter resistant boots I currently possess.
Waiting to cross the street, I hear a woman next to me say, "Thank you for walking in front of me. You helped me see all of the slippery spots." You're welcome, stranger... because you would have definitely have benefited by me falling on my ass. Your ass would have been saved. My ass would have been bruised and soggy. Again, I'm happy I could unintentionally help you out, at the cost of my own (potential) humiliation and pain.
Asses aside, my sexy sleeping-bag coat and knit pom-pom hat did not cover enough territory on my tender body. Glasses covered, legs covered, bangs covered. The snow had won. The snow had sunken my spirits and turned what could have been a mere half-hour outing into something wayyyyy longer.
Thankfully, my ass and my coffee made it back home unharmed. And then the world never saw this ginger again... At least, until Thursday at work, where warmth and happiness are found in blow-dryers and french-bulldogs named Pancake.
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