There is a very specific kind of snowstorm that deserves its own holiday. Not the Tuesday at 7am variety that ruins lives and footwear. Not the Sunday night special that sends a chill through your inbox as you preemptively draft the “working from home today” email. I am talking about the perfect storm. Snow that begins late on a Saturday night and drifts lazily into Sunday morning, with absolutely nowhere you are required to be.
This is the snowstorm that understands you.
It starts quietly, after dinner plans are finished and pajamas have been put on. Maybe you notice it through the window while pretending to watch a show. At first it looks decorative. Festive, even. A little sparkle in the streetlight. You feel no panic because there is no alarm clock looming, no commute calculations running in the background of your brain. The roads can do whatever they want. You are not participating.
By Sunday morning, the world has been gently muted. The kind of silence that makes you instinctively speak more softly, even though no one else is awake yet. The snow is pristine, untouched, and deeply smug about it. Cars are still parked exactly where they were last night, and they will remain there for several glorious hours. You can admire the snowfall without once checking traffic apps or mentally ranking which hills in your town are the most treacherous.
Coffee tastes better on snow Sundays. This is science. You drink it slowly, staring out the window like you are in a movie about a person who has their life together. You are dressed purely for warmth and comfort. No one is judging you. This is a snow day for adults, which is vastly superior to snow days for children.
The best part is the absence of dread. There is no meeting to reschedule, no boss to impress. Conditions are not your problem. You are monitoring baked goods. Or chores around the house. Or a book. Or, best of all, a nap.
Contrast this with weekday snow, which arrives aggressively, usually sideways, and immediately demands sacrifice. That snow comes with sirens, salt trucks, and the haunting phrase “use caution.”
Saturday-night-to-Sunday snow comes with permission. Permission to linger. Permission to cancel plans guilt-free. Permission to watch something indulgent, drink something warm and eat something carb-heavy without explanation.
By Sunday afternoon, the snow begins to fade, like a polite houseguest who knows when to leave. Plows arrive. Life slowly resumes. But for a brief window, the world gave you a gift: winter beauty without winter consequences.
That is the perfect storm.
Thanks for reading!
Frosty
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