Snow

Central Park Snowstorm

Last week I complained about the snow. "I get it, Universe," I said. "New York looks awesome under a foot of snow. But can we please get a break from these winter storms??"

But the Universe didn't listen. Instead, it dumped another load of snow over my favorite city.

I reluctantly--and slowly due to the snow--walked to the gym and got my morning run in on the treadmill. I cursed as I tredged my way through the snow to the subway for work. I almost cried as I nearly slipped walking across Columbia's College Walk after work. Then I talked myself into going outside for my shakeout run that evening.

But the gods work in mysterious ways. Because once I reached Central Park the hate left.

The park was peaceful, the snow was bright white, and the air was fresh. I watched my exhales float away from me and disappear. I enjoyed the crunching sound my shoes made with each step on the thin layer of snow covering the road. I actually loved the snow in the park. Like my younger self, I had the urge to ruin a spot of perfect, untouched snow; so I jumped on it. It was only a 30-minute run, but I wanted it to last longer. Still, I turned around and headed home.

Leaving the park at 110th and Central Park West, I had a renewed perception of the snow. Even the sight of the slush at the crosswalk a block later at 110th and Manhattan Ave. couldn't dampen my spirits.

Then it deceived me.

I jumped for a longer stride to avoid a pile of snow. My left foot landed on what I thought was sturdy ground, but the slush wasn't solid and my foot kept going down, down, down, right into a puddle that went past my ankle.

My shoe waterlogged, my happier spirit gone, I finished my run up Morningside Hill and cursed the snow once again. I hate New York.