Snow? What snow?
Listen, snow: I am not going to write about you.
I don’t care how insistently you fall, or how obnoxious you become (cute move on day two, hanging out with that soul-destroyer, sleet). I don’t care how high you’re piled, how impassable you make the streets, how many roofs you wreck. I don’t care if you come back as predicted on Saturday and stay until June.
And I don’t care that you’ve put yet another Wednesday — which happens to be my deadline day — on ice.
No, I will not write fluff about fluff. (Though, truth be told, you’re not all that fluffy right now. I’ve been shoveling and, no offense, but you’ve got a bit of a weight problem.)
I’m just going to ignore you. I will not stoop to your level. Or, rather, ascend to it, given that your level is at Shaq’s heavily-tattooed shoulder. Yes, I’ve been checking the Shaq-o-meter on Boston.com. But it’s not because I’m obsessed with you, snow. I happen to be in love with Shaq, who absolutely kills you in the adorable department.
Sorry to lash out. I don’t mean to hurt you. The truth is, you’re only part of the problem. It’s all of the talk about you that has me wanting to eat my own head.
I’m particularly sick of the TV news, which has become one big, breathless, blindingly-obvious whiteout. I can’t stand to watch any more shivering reporters standing in the snow, telling me it’s snowing. Or pointing at snowbanks to show me they’re high (the banks, not the reporters: High reporters I could watch). Or standing at the scene of a traffic accident hours after all evidence of the mishap is gone.
Earlier this week, one poor fellow was reporting on a car that had hit an embankment and ended up standing on its nose in the snow. He was reduced to re-enacting the accident, using his left arm as a stand-in for the long-gone vehicle.
“Just to show you how deep this snow is,’’ he said, plunging arm-car into white stuff.
Enough, snow. Because you’re all anybody talks about, we get two minutes on Egypt, which is currently exploding. And nothing on our state budget woes, which are going to mess us up more than you ever could.
I want to write about these and other things weightier than you, but you make it impossible. That’s because nobody answers my calls on snow days, especially if they work in government. They’re all at home, doing their part to avoid stressing the infrastructure, which is obviously no match for your might.
I imagine the politicians and bureaucrats cradling hot chocolate by cozy fireplaces, or making joyful snow angels in parks, chuckling when my pathetic phone number comes up.
And even if I could reach anybody, there is the 3-year-old — who, by the way, is currently in the next room, glassy-eyed, watching his sixth hour of television for the day. Any other day, I am begging that kid to step away from the box. Today, I implore him to stay, bribing him to do something he’s usually not allowed to do with treats he’s usually not allowed to eat. Like many desperate parents across the country today, I’m making deals I’ll soon regret.
It works. Until I try to make a phone call. Then he desperately wants to be with me, heaving his adorable self into my lap and explaining the plot twists of the latest “Arthur’’ in painstaking detail.
I cannot work under these conditions.
You’ve got me up against a very cold wall, snow. I am almost seduced into writing about you . . .
But, no! I refuse to succumb to your dubious charms. Better to write no column at all. I have standards, you know.
Yvonne Abraham is not writing today. She can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.