It snowed in New York...


It snowed in New York. Without me. And my twitter feed is filled with other people's instagram pics of heavily laden tree boughs and slushy streets. I can almost feel the weight of my pant legs as if they had accumulated a gallon of dirty icewater slogging along Broadway and 116th. But not even the half-hearted gray soupyness of slush can make the streets of NY look a mess to my eyes. The city cast a spell long ago that can never be lifted. Slush or no slush. I'm really that hard-core about it.

It's funny that a snowfall in NY is so romantic. Because a snowfall in my hometown is not at all romantic - it's like an evening at home, alone, with flannel pajamas and embarrassing socks and old episodes of the office. I feel badly for taking it for granted because I know the winter is just as beautiful here - probably even more beautiful - because everything is more beautiful in Canada. But when you have to shovel a trail in your driveway just to get the garbage to the curb, you cease to care about pristine blankets of white. And snowflakes that stay on your nose and eyelashes are just mocking testaments of the temperature.

And when did I get to be so jaded that I'd be jealous of snow in NY when I have plenty of it here?

It isn't really the Canadian prairies that have ceased to be's just me.

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