It’s here . . .

The first snow of winter hit my city today and even though it was more like salt lightly falling from a shaker than a full-on snowstorm, it still brought out an excitement in me beyond word’s description.

Winter is my favorite season. Every November, like clockwork, an inescapable feeling of winterlust creeps upon and completely consumes me. I find myself looking at my holidaze board on Pinterest and busting out the Bing Crosby records and Kurt Bestor CD’s. The thick woolen sweaters that have been collecting dust on the top shelve of my closet are freed and I aquire an unsatisfiable craving for peppermint flavored everything.

It’s not even nessecarily Christmas that I love. To me, Christmas Day feels just like any other day out of the year now that I’m nineteen (twenty by this coming Christmas, though.) It’s the side effects of Christmas, so to speak, that make this my favorite time of the year.

It’s the clothing of winter, the hats and scarves and boots and gloves and sweaters. It’s the smell of winter, pine and pepperment and cinnamon sticks. It’s being able to wear sweats and fuzzy socks all the time, and having an exuse to carry your favorite blanket around the house.

I love how most of the time the sky seems so gray and pregnant with dark stormclouds, that it looks like it’s going to cave in. I love when it’s really warm inside your house and you’re sitting by the window and you can literally feel the cold radiating off the glass, creating this beautiful and comforting contrast of tempuratures conflicting to exist in the same moment.

But none of that really describes how winter makes me feel. Winter is so different from all other seasons for me in that way. I’m annoyed by spring because it never seems to be able to make up its mind, I hate summer because I’d rather burn in hell in death rather than life, fall makes me feel nostalgic somehow, but winter just makes me feel something that I can’t possibly describe.

It’s almost like a contsant feeling of anticipation. Like this lightness in your chest because something is coming but you don’t know what it is, not anxiety though, more like a nervous kind of excitement.

There’s that moment when you step out into a snowstorm, and it’s like walking into a wind tunnel with a million icy cotton balls swirling around you. Your heart stops, chills run down your spine, and goosebumps scatter across your skin like sand. You have to stop and marvel in how white it all is, how clean and pure and perfect it seems to be, a moment that could only be captured in a polaroid. It’s beautiful and perfect.

And there’s nothing else like it.

“Wait, close your eyes . . . I smell snow.” —Lorelai Gilmore, Gilmore girls

— m.h.


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