It's snowing. I face the window in my new office, so I've been observing the progression all day. When I went out at lunch, it was spitting the occasional flake, but we've moved on to full-on snow, though it's not sticking much.
As I've expressed my delight in the fluffy white stuff throughout the day, I've been rewarded with vague smiles of amused indulgence from B, not unlike those that a toddler might receive from a tolerating parent. B does not care for snow (because B is from Wisconsin).
My love of snow is rooted in my childhood. We didn't get much of it in east Tennessee, and the forecast of even an inch of snow inspired panic, so school was called off quite easily. A snowy evening held the promise of no school the next day, or at least a delay. There was nothing better than when Dad would wake me to inform me that school was cancelled (!) and I could go back to sleep. In college, Jules and I would vault out of bed at the crack of dawn, call the info line to see if classes were cancelled, and, if they were, would stay in bed in the dark and watch Saved by the Bell reruns or watch the list of closings during the Today Show.
I have also had Great Snow Adventures, like sophomore year of college when several feet of snow closed for three days--while Ash's parents were visiting--and we made the (probably ill-advised) trek to their hotel in Rosslyn where they cooked us dinner. The shuttle wasn't running and taxis were nowhere to be found, so we had to walk the mile from campus to the Metro, navigating the snow drifts, but it was great fun.
So anyway, that's why I like snow. Because somewhere, deep down, I'm hoping for a snow day. Some things don't change.