We had a blizzard earlier this week. (I’ll pause for anyone who was part of the experience to argue whether or not it was, in fact, a blizzard.) It was the Groundhog’s Day Blizzard. I don’t know what the deal is with the shadow and the groundhog. I know my four-year-old nephew sent me an adorable Snap that “Spring is coming, baby Julie!”
That might be my new training motto.
We like to talk about weather in the Midwest, which I suppose is primarily attributable to how much it changes. It makes us hardy and we learn to appreciate fair weather because of the bad weather or some platitude about rainbows after the thunderstorm. Something like that. Maybe varying weather provides many options for fashion? That’s a stretch for me since winter seems to bring out the casserole versus hot dish debate and a strong desire to wear sweatpants whilst falling asleep at 8 pm because it’s been dark for three hours.
No, I am not a big fan of winter. Since I am blessed with the circulation of a person twice my age, I am always cold, plus the lack of light messes with my circadian. I just fire better in the warmth and the light. Basically, I think winter is a dick.
Mother Nature apparently agrees with me.
A friend texted me this pic the night before the storm:
The school district called off classes shortly after the snow boner text. My office closes if the school does. I alerted my team. SNOW DAY!
There were obligatory texts with brothers to ensure that everyone had their Star Wars snuggies ready for Hoth to descend on us.
Then we waited.
I set the alarm early, thinking I might have to high tail it to the gym to get my miles in, but when I glanced outside around 5 am, it was pretty chill. Chill like cold and calm. Same at 6 am and 7 am, so when we finally rose and ran, I was wondering if the storm was a bust.
It happens, the Storm Bust. We talk about the impending storm, including the worst-case scenarios and how “they never used to call off (insert school, work, or religious event)”.
Bust or boner, the miles weren’t gonna run themselves, so we leashed up and took off.
Somewhere in mile three, the wind got a lot colder, and it was apparent this wasn’t a bust.
We finished our five miler as the giant snow boner pounded our city…
It actually only ended up being about five inches of snow, but the wind was a gnarly beast.
There were all the obligatory social media perspectives on how we’ve gone soft and live in a nanny state. It’s funny how that seems to change once their little darlings’ bus gets stuck in a snow bank or their teen can’t get her Honda Civic up the slush slick of Cliff Avenue.
You couldn’t pay me enough to be a school administrator. A weather person, sure—I can throw darts on a wall. (I know there’s more to it, physical geography with all the maps and the satellites, but I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall when the snow boner projection popped up—“How many inches CAN we expect, Sean?”)
We are all experts on things over which we have no control.