I went to college in Syracuse, New York, a city on which more than 130 inches of snow have already fallen this winter. When I chose it folks from my small southern hometown said to me Girl, don't you know it snows up there? and I thought - having grown up in a place where the mere threat of snow would shut down school - Snow? Sounds fun! I was an idiot.
I was also young and vain and possessed a bad fake ID and a set of perky boobs, both of which facilitated lots of long nights in the bars that were then the center of college life in Syracuse. Because we could not be bothered to deal with bulky coats in these crowded, smoke-filled bars (they would hinder our ability to dance to Gloria Gaynor, after all) we would set off through frigid, snowy nights speed walking to the bars in nearly nothing and stumble home after last call when it was even colder. It's a wonder I graduated with all my fingertips intact.
I love winter now in a way I couldn't then, both because I moved to a place where it snows and then melts (the thaw in Syracuse only happens in April or May) and because I'm no longer a slave to youthful idiocy. I no longer smoke or hang out in places that smell like stale beer. But I do still have a soft spot for I Will Survive.