John Moore/ Getty Images News/ Getty Images John Moore/ Getty Images News/ Getty Images
By Chris Vespoli

You know what I really hate? The snow. Man, this snow! Right? Can you believe it? It’s never ending. Just when you think there can’t possibly be more snow — bam! — more snow! It’s everywhere. One storm right after the other. Isn’t it weird how when you’re a little kid, snow is the best thing ever, but when you’re an adult, it’s just another reason why you have suicidal fantasies about swan diving onto the third rail as the digital countdown clock hanging from the ceiling of the number 6 train platform flashes the word “Delayed” — no time of arrival for the next train, just “Delayed.” What the fuck does that even mean? And why does snow fuck up the trains anyway? Them shits are underground. What’s that? You say the subways run above ground in the outer boroughs? Fine, then attach snow plows to the fronts of them and call it a day. And hey, don’t fucking correct me again. I’m pissed off about this snow!

If the trains run well enough for you to actually get to where you’re going, have fun dodging the endless piles of trash that FOR SOME REASON the sanitation department refuses to pick up before, during or after storms. I’ve seen New York City garbage men haul away a shit-stained mattress that had been sitting in a puddle of dog and bum urine. How is digging a few garbage bags out of the snow worse than that? And then there are the shin-deep rivers of slush at every intersection. Oh, don’t get me started on the rivers of slush! You shouldn’t have to dress like you’re going fly fishing in Lexington, Kentucky in order to cross Lexington Avenue. High rubber boots are a must pretty much everywhere you go, dress codes be damned. I even wore a pair with a suit when I went to a wedding over the weekend and had to change into my dress shoes once I got to the reception. Between parties, work and going to the gym, I’m changing in and out of footwear more often than Mr. fucking Rodgers. And don’t forget about those potholes that sprout up all over the streets like a yearly Herpes flare up. Granted, I don’t own a car, but if I did, you better believe I’d be pissed off about the potholes as well.

That’s right, New York, I hate the snow too…now let’s shut the fuck up about it.

Really, just shut the fuck about it. We all know the snow is terrible, and despite hot air’s effect on ice, complaining about it isn’t going to make it all go away. Apologies in advance for blowing your mind, but this is what winter in the Northeast is like. December? It’s probably going to snow. January? More snow. February? You bet your ass, snow. March? Maybe it’ll be mild, but maybe it’ll be two more weeks of more…fucking…snow. There’s not much we can do about it because, you know, it’s the weather. It’s gonna do what it’s gonna do. You know what probably definitely won’t help the warm weather get here quicker? Changing your Facebook profile photo to yourself in a bathing suit from last July, or complaining about shoveling, or spouting tired clichés like “this is the worst winter EVER” when making elevator small talk. But the most common reaction to the snow by far is the empty threat of “one of these days I’m just going to move to [insert cultureless warm weather city here]”. I lived in one of those places for a year — Los Angeles. I’m not gonna lie, the weather was gorgeous all of the time. Literally every single day was a beautiful day. It was great for the first few months, but once November rolled around and I was still wearing t-shirts and shorts, the perpetual summer started messing with my head. It felt like I was living the same day over and over again — like Groundhog Day if Phil Connors was covering a surfing competition in Long Beach. And when I saw people light a Christmas tree with fake snow on it in 70-degree weather in the middle of an outdoor mall, I knew I had to move back home. There’s definitely something to be said about the benefit of having seasons, and how they are able to unite a city like New York. You can hear all nine million people exhale on that first real day of nice spring weather, thankful to have made it through yet another New York City winter without killing ourselves or one another.

But rest assured, like all joy in this city, the joy of spring is extremely fleeting. The same people who are now complaining about the polar vortex will soon enough be lamenting the hot summer days when the subways are so humid and putrid they smell like someone took a shit in a Mexican sauna. Choose your death, New York: fire or ice. It’s just like that Twilight Zone episode where the Earth is moving too close to the sun and is about to burn up, but it turns out it’s a dream that’s being had by a woman who lives in a universe where the Earth is actually moving farther and farther away from the sun and is about to freeze. Then you realize everyone has pig faces and a guy breaks his glasses or something like that. I don’t know, all those episodes kind of mesh together. Anyway, the point is that — winter or summer — New York weather will never be completely comfortable, and that’s good for us. Comfortable people become complacent. They stop hungering for something better. They become soft. They start playing beach Ladder Ball and listening to Jimmy Buffett and Sublime. I’m not saying living in New York makes you better than everyone else, I’m just saying it makes you a stronger person than you may have been if you were living someplace where rent is affordable, fresh food is available and you didn’t live in constant fear that someone was going to urinate on you and/or your belongings on the “C” train. New York’s shitty weather is just another test to see if you can handle living here, and every time you complain about it or threaten to move at the first twinge of cold, you prove that you really can’t. Snow sucks, but I promise to shut the fuck up about it if you do too.

Leave a Reply