It is snowing here in Brooklyn. It is beautiful and seemingly magical, but I am inside in the warmth looking outward unto it and it is just the first "real" snow. If you couldn't tell, I'm not a particular fan of snow. Maybe it's because I've got a bit of the desert in my heart (having been born in the Southwest) or maybe it's that I've got thin Florida blood (having grown up in Florida), but I am not a fan of snow. I admit that it is pretty and can transform even the most decrepit of sceneries into a Winter Wonderland, but my bones ache and my sinuses burn and walking through the snow in the City (after the first) snow is asking for soaking dirty socks, stepping into black ice and hopscotching over (and potentially falling into) the piles of yellow snow that litter the sidewalks. I wish I could be grateful like Nina Bagley for winter whites or pine for snow like Jennifer Sarkilahti of Odette New York or be thrilled beyond belief like Paula Best, but I find that I'm more like Lorelei and ask myself why I do this to myself.
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