When I was younger the first snowfall of the year had always elicited a wild, limb-flailing dance to the God of Ongoing Blizzards. My performance was a heartfelt spiritual plea for continued school-closing weather throughout the winter months. My goal was to dance hard enough to please the deity into granting my wish and creating a winter vacation to match the summer one. I’d dance the miracle into fashion and parade up and down the hallway. Twirling in a one two step with a round off and diving into a split. . Though my dream was never fully realized there was a week with no school due to the blizzard of 86.

Today, I don’t feel like doing the snow dance and I do want to be anywhere but in the confines of my office. The starched walls are bearing down on me as I think back to what just happened and how I landed where I am. On my ass. Though I can’t ignore the rush of pure joy that the sight of pure unfiltered snow evokes in me. At the onset of a dreary morning that’s quickly filled with specks of pure white innocence falling from the sky I’m elated and filled with a euphoric feeling. A week later, the snowy innocence is replaced with a dark and dreary grump of a day. The snow loses its muster and turns to slush reeking of filth and disgust making a mess out of everything.

I’m feeling like a big messy pile of slush this morning after shoveling the snow.

I played the night’s events in my head over and over. In retrospect it felt like I’ve been puked on. I really don’t want to be the sort of woman who gets shrewish and possessive or clingy or needy. Am I overreacting? I’m not sure. I can mess with my own head better than anyone. And I’m feeling exhausted by all the second guessing.

Because sometimes, that’s all there is. You take a chance and can’t question it. Kendra told me this morning, “If you send a message out you’re looking to get one back.”

Sometimes.