This One's For Fabi

I waded through a fluffy bog of white in black suede ballet flats on my way out the back door this morning. At some point last week, buoyed by a dearth of snowfall, I decided to store my boots in my car for the sake of convenience: “That way, if I decide I need them, they’ll be right at hand.” Bad move, Emily; you clearly neglected to think about the fact that you live in Minnesota. As I trudged across the yard, socks soaked, I decided that perhaps convenience is all relative.

I skidded down side streets in between lanes of traffic on my way to work. Making my normal left turn into heavy traffic from my residential street was out of the question, since the thick wedges of snow that had accumulated in the crosswalk virtually guaranteed slow acceleration and ineffectually-spinning wheels. I let out a relieved sigh when I finally reached I-94; at least the four-lane had been visited by a snowplow. As I sped down the salted-and-sanded road, I decided that perhaps commuting on the freeway isn’t quite so bad.

I floored it on my way out of an Uptown parking lot, audibly encouraging my car not to roll backward down the seemingly-vertical paved slope it had to ascend to reach street level. The asphalt was obscured under pale brown powder, compressed by tires until it resembled so much flaky pastry dough. Apparently the lot isn’t being plowed until tonight; this bodes ill for those cars still trapped in their sedate, yellow-lined rows by the ever-accumulating drifts. As I narrowly avoided sliding tail-first into my place of employment, I decided that perhaps a nearly-free-of-charge parking lot that is located down a steep hill is overrated.

Fabi, you’d love it around here.