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March 2, 2009

The best part of snow in Hokkaido or Minnesota is that its so plentiful that it wipes out the surrounding world.  This has the effect of bosses and problems being distinctly muted, and the constant feeling of being able to take a right turn and disappear into the tundra.   

Snow in New York, like New York itself, is heavy and oppressive.  Its never enough to hide anything, and just makes everything more tedious.  There’s just enough snow to make the mile walk to the subway long enough to miss the train, and hard enough to make the legs ache.  In the station, we all leaned, even into ourselves, with exhaustion, and watched one, two….seven trains going in to Queens.  So many as to make you wonder at the terrible imbalance: one train out of Queens for every seven in, until they simply stick in a great big line from Union Square to Bay Ridge, and you can get home by walking through 2,371 individual train cars.  On the train is much worse.  Everyone is narcoleptic to the point that you wonder if all the pairs leaning heavily on each other and snoring know each other.  The ride takes 25 minutes but internally, my body is certain that its been at least 4 hours.  

Of course my boss calls to say she’s not coming in, but not to let me go home.  I had so hoped she would call early morning and I could snuggle back into bed, my main task of the day making very elaborate hash browns and watching terrible movies on HBO.

edited to say: that I love my boss and she wouldn’t have blinked at letting me go home if I asked, because she’s nice.   


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