I hate snow.
As a southerner, you might expect me to be “filled with wonder” or “possessed with child-like joy” when a snowstorm comes through. That would be because you don’t know I lived in Michigan for five years, at the end of which time I declared that if I never ever saw another snowflake, or a piece of ice outside of a gin and tonic, it would be too soon.
Despite this I now find myself in Boston, which counts among its less endearing qualities the expectation of a substantial annual snow total. So you can imagine my joy when yesterday’s weather forecast included a prediction of 25 cm of snow accumulation. Groan.
Disturbingly, the forecast was incorrect, as has often been the case last winter and this. Instead of a big pile of accumulated frozen crap, we got an evening of snow, followed by rain, which has melted and washed away most of it. So, #winning for me.
Having said all of the above, I do find myself somewhat disappointed. I moved here with the firm expectation of long, cold, snowy winters, like it or not. Instead what we are getting is long, not-all-that-cold, rainy winters — more or less what we had in Brno or even Philadelphia. So I’m not even getting enough snow to actually hate it. Definitely disappointing.