Stir Crazy from Cabin Fever...

Snow days affect every age group differently. Inside those age groups, they affect every individual differently. Going off of my own assumptions and my own experiences, I've gathered the following about snow days:


When you're nine, they're magical days where you stay in bed, even if you were wide awake, until after the bus would've left, just in case. They were days where you make massive snow men that never looked like Frosty: The Animated Movie suggested they would. You'd drink Hot Chocolate and watch Disney movies and just revel in the pureness of staying home on a weekday.


When you're thirteen, you stroll around the block with your friends and pretend to be cooler than playing in the snow. You get into huge snowball wars where at least one person gets seriously bodily injured. You sled down hills with trees that will somehow damage you or your sled, no matter how carefully you navigate.


By the time you become sixteen, your day consist of mostly sleeping, doing homework that you didn't do the week before and obsessively refreshing Facebook's homepage. And, usually, if you're not me, you play in the snow.

Basically, no matter what age you are, snow days rock. Everyone agrees on this, and until today, I was one of those 'everyone's.

I'm reporting live from Snow Day 912. The snow outside is still falling, and the schools are still being called off. The fun is over. The boredom has come. The power is flickering on and off, and the heat is rapidly decreasing. I've read the first two chapters of every book I own. I've refreshed Facebook's homepage so many times, my computer is wheezing, and is one blog post away from dropping of exhaustion. I've stared at the tree-limbs, encased in frozen ice, and I've drank my weight in hot beverages. I've watched Anastasia six times since December alone.

There's a type of war raged in your body when you hear that school won't be in session, again, tomorrow. Half of you is still childish enough to cheer and happily go back to doing absolutely noting before the boredom sets in. The other half, the more sensible half, remembers immediately that by nine thirty the next day, you'll be begging the ice to just stop.

"Mom," I say, miserably. My dad is fiddling with his guitar, my brother killing zombies on a game. Even my dog is playing quietly with his stuffed lion. I am the only one with this much boredom spewing aggressively through my every pore. "Mom, please make sure we have school tomorrow."

My mother shakes her head. "I can't do that. I'm only a Mom." Long ago, she stopped lying to me about the power she actually has with the school board: which, is none.

"Mom," I keep trying. I have to keep trying. "C'mon, can't you do anything?" But I know she can't, and she knows she cant. She's useless.

I turn to my dad, aware of how pathetic I look, but unable to care. "Dad, Daddy, Pops... I love you..."

He sighs, and sets down the instrument. "I can't make them open school tomorrow, Emily."

"Why! Hmm, and why's that? Because you can't grant me this one little thing? Huh, Dad? You both hate me!"

They look at each other, and shake their head. Mom turns back to her book, and Dad picks up his guitar, both secure in the knowledge that tomorrow, they can leave this house.

Unlike me. Because, tomorrow, day 913 of my misery, is a snow day.