It wouldn’t be fair to say that I absolutely hate snow. I like it. I just don’t like dealing with it. So it’s kind of like an ex-boyfriend. (I love comparing weather to relationships.)
When I was a kid in Tahoe, I loved snow. Even when it piled high above my head, all I wanted to do was put on my snow boots and snow pants and play in it.
That childlike wonder remained when we moved to Vegas. There was always snow up in the mountains, and we’d go up every once in a while, but rarely were there snowfalls in the valley where we lived. I remember once when the snow stuck. My mom made me get out of bed to take pictures. Then I had to go to Sunday school. By the time that was over, the snow had melted away.
My first snow in Reno was fantastic. I ran around in the flakes, declaring how much I loved this kind of precipitation.
Boy, what a sap I was.
Reno taught me to know better. With its sporadic snow storms between October and May, I got used to sunny, 65 degrees one day and trudging to class with flakes falling the next.
After moving into West Street, snow storms meant our cars wouldn’t make it up the street, which was on a hill and wasn’t plowed once the entire two years I lived there. Black ice that came after snow had melted and refrozen one made my car skid down another hill. Tripping on any sidewalk was common at best. And shoveling? God, how I hate shoveling.
That’s why snow is like an ex. It’s pretty to look at and play with at first, but at the end of the day, I’d rather not deal with the troubles it brings.