Do you remember those PSAT analogy videos from seventh grade? Here’s one if you don’t: “carpet is to rug” as “this-weather-is-broke-as-hell is to Bobby Brown.”
That’s right folks, this weather is broke, baroque, (cue Tony the Tiger) — Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrroke! Sure, some people think the snow is “quaint,” “cozy” and even “beautiful,” but when you see an innocent pigeon die mid-air, fall to the ground and quiver in the last throes of death you get kinda scared.
As I briskly stroll through the slush, I can’t help but reminisce about the warmer days. The possibility of getting stabbed at the Popeye’s walk-up window, the crisp sound of water cascading down the Women’s Table as the Shakespeare Lady asks for 10 dollars and — who could forget — the reenactment of the Battle of Helm’s Deep by the Trekkies with foam swords on Cross Campus (yes, I went there).
But alas, those days lie far from reach — in the meanwhile, I spend my cold and lonely nights with my significant other (a pillow named Lars) keeping me warm. (I think he’s cheating on me though — damn).
Let’s be honest, my lifeless pillow and probably that dead pigeon looks much better than the average wintertime Yalie. Frostbite + chapped lips + third degree windburn = non-hot mess. No need to fret though, once spring rolls around, everyone looks smokin’ — it’s almost like going to a college in So-Cal! That girl in Chem 114 with the cystic acne and hair-lip starts to look “doable.” Please forgive her for looking busted, it’s this broke weather’s fault.
When I first came to Yale from my sundry state of North Carolina, I too was fooled by the allure of the first winter’s snow. Snow was a special thing, something that came infrequently to my little town of Hickory nestled in the foothills of the Appalachians. Naturally, my first snow at Yale was filled with wonder and delight–gossamer wings, butterfly kisses, angel wings and — OK, OK, I’m getting way too Oprah: Remembering Your Spirit.
The first snow was really chill, dude. But every other since then snow has been like a crack baby — unplanned, unwanted and unloved.
Always the optimist, I think that this week’s weather may have its high points. For starters, the snow is bringing people together. You don’t need anymore cheesy pickup lines like “Baby, what’s your sign?” when it’s this cold. All you have to do is stand forlorn on a curb somewhere, shake like an epileptic watching anime and chatter your teeth a little. That special someone is bound to come up to you and ask if you are doing OK — or run away.
Even better, the arctic weather has prompted many to dress in several layers — aka give up on their diet and blame looking fat on their “layers” of clothes. Personally, I’m on the fatkins diet. There’s one step — hide that fat under your parka and go.
The negative temperatures have seemed to spark a resurgence in fashion campus wide. Many people have gotten more in touch with their ethnic sides due to the cold. I swear I saw Erykah Badu in her signature headwrap in Biology of Gender and Sexuality last Tuesday. And fur has come out of nowhere this season. I’m sure the people at PETA will dub this winter “The Never-ending Funeral.”
As you shuffle across the salt, sand and slush this week, with your face more frozen than Nicole Kidman’s forehead at the Golden Globes, remember to be nice to people from Mexico, Hawaii, the South, and other warm states/countries, because this may be their first snow and, no, they’re not really that stupid. Remember to smile at that unsightly guy or girl in your section because they might just thaw into a hottie come April. And finally, remember to wear your gloves. Everywhere they’re needed.
Will Cornwell is the result of an unplanned pregnancy.