Snow: Winter Wonderland or Jesus's Dandruff?

Paradise found.

Outside snow is falling and I’m so excited it’s like a Pointer Sisters concert in here.

Something about snow just makes you feel good. The pure whiteness of the flakes as they gather on the ground, covering every surface with nature’s version of a clean slate; the quiet that follows a fresh snowfall, silencing a city that was screaming to be heard mere hours before; the still-palpable-after-all-these-years feeling that you just might get a snow day—that coveted, surprise release from commitments that causes you to well up with the warm hope in your stomach typically reserved for first loves, Tom Jones songs and scenes from Dirty Dancing.

“I carried a watermelon." And I got a snow day. Life rules.

Snow is damn sexy. It looks hot as it’s falling and just as hot when it’s lying down, spread like a luscious, whipped cream cheese on the ground. And who doesn’t love a good whipped cream cheese? You want to run out there and put down some fresh tracks, and stay inside watching it in equal measure. Snow is nostalgia. You feel like a kid, you feel like a mountain man, you feel like Bing Crosby in a sleigh, rocking a little flask of the good stuff as you survey the manicured tundra that is the backdrop of the movie of your life (in Bing’s case that’s a movie that stars white people, acting very white, in their white winter wonderland. In mine it stars one white girl, acting ridiculous, in her dirty slush paradise). Your heart says let’s make snow angels, but your brain says wet jeans are going to suck.

Briefly, you flash on frost bite you’ve known and loved, your fingertips tingling at the thought of it. You think of the time that guy in fourth grade got his tongue stuck on the frozen tetherball pole. Who the hell licks the tetherball pole? Wait, are people still playing tetherball? Then you remember the slip on the ice that bruised your ass, the numb skull, the icicle nostrils, the brutality of the wind smacking you in the face. God, winter blows.

But outside it looks so nice.

Snow is iconic. It’s legendary. Snowmaggeddon, the Storm of the Century, the Great Blizzard of fill in the blank—people love to label a storm. And they love to document a storm. In the era of social media, no good storm comes without a litany of selfies to communicate just how bitchin’ that blizzard really was. And you know it was if you have need to use the word “bitchin.’”

A cue to stick your tongue out, a call to arms to amass an arsenal of snowballs, the setting of many an epic, blizzard-soaked sporting event (Packers vs. Broncos 1984, anyone?); snow rules and humans can’t help themselves but to enjoy the absolute shit out of it. And why the hell not?

Soft snow falling brings with it the sensation of peace and of calm, like we can hit the pause button and just listen to the stillness for a few. Right about now that seems like just what the doctor ordered. A few snowbound hours to take a breath and exhale the noise will do us all some good.

Because nobody puts Baby in a corner, not even a blizzard.

Spring has sprung... a leak in your brain.

With an end to winter’s brutal smack in the face finally upon us, residents of New York City greeted the first solid weeks of warmer temperatures with enthusiasm for a much-needed wardrobe change and hope, as ever, for a sunny disposition. Yes, the hills are alive with the sound of chirping birds, fire escape gardening and ridiculousness, the way every spring should be.

Maybe it’s the fact that winter took its sweet time packing its bags this year—which is odd considering all it had was a duffle stuffed with long underwear and a fake Triple F.A.T. Goose parka—or maybe the lone, lingering effect of six-months of sub-arctic chill is, in fact, one giant brain freeze, but this year, it is achingly apparent that humanity’s enthusiasm for friendlier temperatures is being joined by an over-zealous desire to not simply transition into warmer weather clothing, but dive head first off the cliff with as little covering our bodies as possible. Public Service Announcement: G-strings and frozen glaciers don't mix. Yes, we can all agree that an end to the obscene, ten-minute, coat-scarf-hat-gloves-boots-shit, I forgot something-wait, I have to go to the bathroom-now I'm hot performance we’ve been starring in since October can’t come soon enough. But with temperatures in the high-60s one day and the low-50s the next, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

In any season there are always those that hit the town South Beach style, without a care or a coat, shivering away on the sidewalk, waiting in line to get into a club and groove their way to warmth, looking pretty cold and pretty ridiculous, all to spare themselves the pain of not ruining their “look.” And we all remember that irritating guy in college who wore flip-flops and a t-shirt no matter what the weather, channeling the earthy hippie he strived to be (something tells me that these days on college campuses that translates to channeling the Steve Jobs portrayed so ridiculously by Ashton Kutcher. My eyes are still burning.). That guy looked like an idiot then and is probably still looking like a bona fide idiot to this very day. But I’m not talking about him or the wanna-be Miami Sound Machine back up dancers, I’m talking about the generally wise-minded citizens of NYC that are going above and beyond merely switching to a lighter coat, and going straight to mini skirts and shorts. Public Service Announcement: Not everyone is beach ready.

Now I believe, as a human and a citizen of a free society, in the right to bare arms and bare legs, but is it really wise to be breaking out your gams with the temperatures still teetering on the brink of chilly? Are you not, as my grandmother would say, “asking to get a cold,” by going so scantily clad, exhibiting a lack of judgment in the first weeks of spring that indicates you learned nothing during your long period of frigid winter hibernation? Perish the thought. There must be some data to support underdressing as well, ridiculous.

According to the facts of modern medicine, you do not actually catch a cold from being cold, “at least not directly.” Thanks WebMD, for leaving a sliver of gray area there. You catch a cold, and worse the flu, primarily from not washing your hands. And so I must wash my hands of this debunked myth (but not of that amazing pun). Don’t tell my grandmother.

What then is the real risk of not having enough layers on when the weather is cold? Is there one? I don’t mean frozen, death-inducing temperatures here so obvious threats aside, is there scientific research supporting the decision to not wear sufficient clothing in nippy weather as being totally asinine? Or do you merely run the risk of looking like an idiot?

Some of us run that risk every day.

Weighing in on this heady subject, the CDC points out that a number of cold weather related injuries and conditions can occur when it is “as warm as 60 degrees.” Those include chilblains, trench foot and even hypothermia. The CDC goes on to say, “Mild hypothermia can make you feel confused, and you may not think anything is wrong until it is too late.” Um, kind of like not wearing enough clothes. “Being too cold can also cloud your judgment and cause you to make mistakes while you work, and mistakes can sometimes be deadly.”

That’s right. The right to bare arms equals death.

Well, there you have it. Though science contends you will not catch a cold by going without proper layers in borderline cold temperatures, you may end up dead. Or, as the Miami Sound Machine would say, “un tonto muerto.” Okay, I’m dramatizing a bit for production value, but making an inadequate clothing choice could propel you towards more serious conditions and it is important to know that covering yourself up intelligently as those projections for weather in the high-50s turn into days in the mid-40s might safeguard your health.

It might also leave you looking less ridiculous in the long run, something your fellow citizens would really appreciate. You may recognize us, we’re the ones with the scarves around our necks and the socks on our feet.