Chance of Ice
I awoke on Tuesday morning and checked out weather.com, as is my habit, to see the forecast. I was in formed that it was "Windy, with a chance of ice." Now, saying that the forecast is "a chance of ice" in New Hampshire is rather like saying there is a "chance of cursing" in a Ying Yang Twins song. In other words, overly optimistic.
When I ventured outside, however, I discovered that it was misting, and the mist was freezing on top of the already packed layers of ice on the ground. This pre-existing ice stems from one place: the snow plows. They possess a magical power: they plow all of the snow off the paths, but for half an inch, which is pressed down by the weight of the plow. This unleashes a train of events that end in ultimate disaster. The snow melts a bit during the day and freezes at night, leaving the campus the next morning a sheet of very smooth, very slippery ice.
The ever-present ice leads to one of my favorite rites of winter: the dramatic, wind-milling-arms fall. I took my first fall on Tuesday, when I tried to walk to breakfast wearing shoes with no tred. I attempted to trek down a hill, but to no avail. My feet slowly slid from under me, and I desperately flailed my arms as I fell to the ground at an exorbitantly slow pace. It left exactly enough time for this thought, "Please, God, no, no, crap, shit, motherfu-" CRACK! (read as both my pelvic bone and the ice)
All across campus, people were being initiated into winter 2006. One boy careened down a steep turn in the path and seemed homefree. When he attempted to move again, however, he faceplanted in a snowdrift. I feel fine about finding a perverse pleasure in watching these accidents, as people are rarely injured.
But, if there is one thing that is almost as good as the fall, it is the near-miss. At this point, the windmill fall becomes another beast entirely: the matrix move. Moving in slow motion, the foot slips, and the boy begins windmilling. His torso tips backwards into almost a ninety degree angle. He, arms thrust out, at last manages to propeller himself back into a standing position. Awed by the display, passers-by applaud.
Though I have not objected to the freak, oh-my-god-global-warming-is-REAL-and-I'm-going-to-be-drowned-by-a-melting-iceberg-tidal-wave! weather, I admit to having missed the tumbles. I can feel, now that I've seen people slipping all over campus, that winter is at last beginning. Even if it's back up to 45 degrees.
When I ventured outside, however, I discovered that it was misting, and the mist was freezing on top of the already packed layers of ice on the ground. This pre-existing ice stems from one place: the snow plows. They possess a magical power: they plow all of the snow off the paths, but for half an inch, which is pressed down by the weight of the plow. This unleashes a train of events that end in ultimate disaster. The snow melts a bit during the day and freezes at night, leaving the campus the next morning a sheet of very smooth, very slippery ice.
The ever-present ice leads to one of my favorite rites of winter: the dramatic, wind-milling-arms fall. I took my first fall on Tuesday, when I tried to walk to breakfast wearing shoes with no tred. I attempted to trek down a hill, but to no avail. My feet slowly slid from under me, and I desperately flailed my arms as I fell to the ground at an exorbitantly slow pace. It left exactly enough time for this thought, "Please, God, no, no, crap, shit, motherfu-" CRACK! (read as both my pelvic bone and the ice)
All across campus, people were being initiated into winter 2006. One boy careened down a steep turn in the path and seemed homefree. When he attempted to move again, however, he faceplanted in a snowdrift. I feel fine about finding a perverse pleasure in watching these accidents, as people are rarely injured.
But, if there is one thing that is almost as good as the fall, it is the near-miss. At this point, the windmill fall becomes another beast entirely: the matrix move. Moving in slow motion, the foot slips, and the boy begins windmilling. His torso tips backwards into almost a ninety degree angle. He, arms thrust out, at last manages to propeller himself back into a standing position. Awed by the display, passers-by applaud.
Though I have not objected to the freak, oh-my-god-global-warming-is-REAL-and-I'm-going-to-be-drowned-by-a-melting-iceberg-tidal-wave! weather, I admit to having missed the tumbles. I can feel, now that I've seen people slipping all over campus, that winter is at last beginning. Even if it's back up to 45 degrees.
posted by Meredith at 6:59 AM
1 Comments:
Hello! I found your blog on blogtopsites. You have a nice little blog here - hope to see it grow with your updates. Great writing (especially for someone so young). The title and color scheme are also inspired. Brown and yellow are so underrated (except in Asian cultures). Keep up the good work!
David
Post a Comment
<< Home