Snow Falling on CedarCrest
February 17, 2003 7:27 p.m.
We trudge slowly up the hill, wading through the hip deep snow and sinking deeply with each step. The building looms next to us, throwing light onto the pristine surface below. I pause to throw a few feeble snowballs my window and begin the uphill trek again. The snow is no longer falling, but the wind swirls around us, lifting the liquid crystals and making it look like the storm will never end. Jennie runs on ahead of us, anxious to return to her warm room after futile attempts to free her car from the huge drifts which hold it captive. Behind me, Babson dissolves into giggles as she falls over into snow piles every few steps along the path.I grasp the handle of the stair-rail, pulling myself upwards when the strength of my legs begins to fail. My numb fingers and toes grip tightly to wall and sidewalk, slippery with white film. Once up on the terrace, my gloved and mittened fingers struggle with tightly zippered pockets, trying to emancipate the dorm keys locked within. Jennie bounces in place impatiently, a chorus of, "Cold! Gotta Pee! Gotta Pee! Gotta Pee!" emerging from her chapped lips. Finally, someone inside notices her plight and comes to open the door for us.
I walk inside and a wave of heat flows over me, fogging my glasses and dampening my hair with the melting flakes lodged in it. We head for the stairs, trying to conceal my identity from the "Nazi Receptionist" who could write me up for an infraction if she was really paying attention. I waddle down the short flight of stairs, bursting into the empty hallway and already beginning to shed the heavy layers of clothing covering my body.
The three of us make our way down the hall, laughing and giggling, as we peel off soaked clothing and kick off wet boots. The once barren hallway soon looks like the victim of a strange strip tease as we unearth the last layer of clothing and head for the showers. With bare feet, we avoid the piles of snow that Babson has left on the floor and skid into the wet floor of the bathroom, pointing and laughing at my beet red skin. "I'm terminally white!" I say. "No," retorts my mother, "You're terminally red!"
I climb into the welcoming shower stall and quickly turn on the water, feeling the warmth rush over my cold body. The feeling slowly creeps back into my toes as I revel in the soothing water. Soon, I shake myself out of my private debauchery and wrap up in towels and a bathrobe and seek the sanctity of my room. I snuggle in blankets with a hot drink and a good book, weary despite the fact that the night is still young and much merryment awaits. I will party later, but for now, I shall enjoy my indolence with unabashed licentiousness.
