I hate snow. It’s cold and wet and worse than rain because if it hits you in the eye, it hurts. It melts and gets dirty and slushy and… yuuuck. So when I found out that snow was in the forecast for today, I considered staying in bed. As tempting as it was to tell my boss that I had a severe allergy to snow, today happened to be that magical day when checks are handed out. And I was so not going to miss that magic moment.
When I finally dragged my lazy ass out of bed and saw that it hadn’t snowed yet, I bitched and grumbled that I’d gotten up a whole fifteen minutes early for no reason. All through my morning at work I kept waiting for the stupid snow to show itself. I checked the weather. By the time I went for my smoke break at eleven, the snow still hadn’t started and I was beginning to cling to the false hope that maybe it was all a big mistake. Maybe winter really was not going to come.
At about 12:30, the snow decided to show up after all. I stood in the hall with my upper lip twisted into a sneer, my hands balled into fists. I realized I probably looked silly standing in the hall and glaring at the weather, so I got moving.
By 1, the snow was pouring down. (Okay, floating, as my boss kindly corrected me when I told him the snow was pouring.) With a sigh, and fingers crossed hoping that my windshield wipers would work, I ventured outside. “Yuck,” I said as my boss gave me a ride to the parking lot a block away. “Yuck.”
Cleaning off my car was, of course, pointless. “Yuck, yuck, yuck,” I singsonged as I threw myself into the car. I tried the windshield wipers and they decided that it was a good time to actually cooperate. I slowly backed out of my spot — while I could still see through the back window — and headed out.
“‘S not so bad,” I said as I came out onto the road. And then I started to zig. I got the car back on course and decided to keep my mouth shut. I drove slowly, thankful for the mailman truck in front of me — he was crawling, and I was glad to make him my scapegoat. Heh. I got to Riverside, which is a two-way road divided by lots of trees and crap, so it gives the illusion that it’s a one-way road on both sides. Or maybe it is. Whatever. I went under the bridge, and even though it was a little slippery I thought I was going pretty well. Nothing could beat last year, when I’d had to learn how to drive in the snow — in a fucking blizzard. I’d made it home from work fine that time, so how could this be any worse?
As I came out from under the bridge and crept toward the three lanes at the light, the car decided to zig-zag. Two cars were at the light — one in the left and one in the middle lanes, and another was on my right heading for the right lane. My car began to spin to the left, and as my lips parted in an ohshit face, I did the only thing I could think of: I turned the wheel to the left, a dead cigarette in one hand and my eyes bugging out of my head. All I could see were the cars idling in front of me, the light turning green and the red car coming up on my right. I saw headlights from behind me and thought, this is it.
The car stopped. I looked around me and felt the air whoosh out of my lungs. I hadn’t hit anything. Granted, I was facing the wall and there was still oncoming traffic, but I hadn’t hit anything! I threw the dead cigarette out of the window, punched the button for the four-way flashers and immediately lit another cigarette. It tasted fantastic, like being alive. I thought about calling my dad, but really, could I get out of this by myself? Could I get home without any help?
“You’re going the wrong way,” some asshole yelled as he drove by.
“That’s because I’m fucking stuck!” I yelled back, making a face. I was going the “wrong” way, but how the fuck else was I supposed to turn around?
A pickup with a plow attached to the front passed me, its driver staring at me. Thanks for your help, I thought. I began to swing the car around, but didn’t have enough room to make a full U-turn. I stopped at the curb and put the car in reverse. I could see more headlights approaching, dimly through the snow-covered windows, and all I could do was hope that whomever was coming would stay the fuck put while I got going again. I was terrified of spinning out again and hitting someone this time; I couldn’t possibly get luckyuse my awesome snow-driving powers twice.
I got the car going again — the right way, Mr. Pickup Plow — and made it through the green light without getting creamed by anyone behind me. I decided it was a good idea to crawl at about 15-20 mph, and kept a constant supply of nicotine to my system. The car slid a few times, but nothing really major until I got to Washington Ave.; I literally zig-zagged all the way up the hill, and twice I thought I was gonna get stuck. Luckily no one was coming.
Somehow I’d managed to keep my cool through all this, and it was only until I passed Piedmont — big hill — and saw an accident with a cop directing the second vehicle off of the hill that I started to panic. “Th-that coulda, that coulda been me,” I choked, staring at the vehicle with its bashed in hood and feeling the tears in my eyes. “No, relax. Stay calm. You’re almost home, and that’s when accidents happen, so you’ve gotta calm down.” I did. I inhaled nicotine and sang along to The Birthday Massacre.
I got home and pulled into the first spot available. Numbly I got out of the car and disconnected my battery. I walked up the stairs, mouth slightly open. I’d made it home, I realized.
I hate snow.
