Saturday morning, as I left the warmth of a cozy Manhattan apartment in search of a cab, the world was completely white.  I was wearing my new suede knee-high boots, discretely trotting through newly fallen snow, trying not to slip…clearly, not the most appropriate attire; although, I had sprayed them the night before with a water resistant spray, I still worried.  Snow, after all, is no friend of suede.

The snow was still falling, and there was barely a car in sight; however, the gray matter, which only forms on roads after tires have tread across them, was visible on the snow-ladened asphalt.  I detest the gray matter.  Many a shoe has been ruined by it.  Many a day has been spent frustratingly trying to walk around it; the gray matter is known for turning streets into rivers.  It is what made me lose some of my love for snow, but on this morning however, the childhood fondness came back to me.  If I had been wearing the proper foot attire, I would have gladly trodden through it. Sadly, I was not.

As quickly as the fondness came, it left, as I let myself into a cab and realized that the street conditions were only going to get worse…especially by my apartment in its little suburbian niche of Queens.  My road is almost never plowed.  Last winter, during one of our many snow storms, I physically could not open my door to leave and was forced to stay home, until my landlord came and dug me out somewhere in the mid-afternoon.  As predicted, the road conditions on the highway deteriorated as we progressed closer to my home…a trip that should have taken twenty minutes, twenty-five tops, ended up being more than double. 

We got off at my exit and, I held my breath.  There was no sign of gray matter; the streets were completely white.  I’m sure the cab driver was far from happy that I had jumped into his cab…but, at least he didn’t throw me out like cabbies are prone to do when they find out your intentions of going outside of the borough ofManhattan; even though they are technically not supposed to be doing that.  I snuggled in the snow-less shelter of my apartment that day, and vowed to take a real walk in the snow the next. 

Almost a week later, and it has rained quite a lot; I never did get to take my walk.  The temperatures are supposed to hit near sixty degrees today, but it is so dark and gloomy out that I don’t care how warm it may be.  It could be worse though, all of this rain could be snow.

For those who don’t know already, I am obsessed with notebooks and writing tools. The way that many people feel about how, a change in scenery can give a clear head and refresh your mind, I believe that the same can be achieved by purchasing a new notebook, pens and pencils. I cannot tell you how many of these I have scattered about my apartment, but the number of pens and pencils far exceed that of notebooks, for one reason…I go through notebooks more quickly. To understand this, I must explain my method of writing.

I handwrite everything. Yes, I own a computer, and yes, I have tried the whole stream-of-consciousness method of writing, which is the only way I can write on a computer, but it’s just not the same for me. I feel that, the second my fingers touch the keys, the thought is instantly lost from my mind, but when I put pen to paper, that’s never the case. So, along with my need to handwrite everything, comes my need for it to always look perfect. I constantly edit while I write (it is probably my greatest passion) and after a while, there’s a lot of cross-outs on my page which, for some reason, start to block my thoughts, so I tear out the page and rewrite it, editing some more as I go along. I cannot tell you how many times I perform this action, but by the time I am ready to type, there has been a transformation. My garbage can is usually filled with crumpled up pieces of paper. Many of you may think that this method is a waste of time, when I could just directly write on the computer, review once and be done with it, but this method works for me.

A few weekends ago, I went to Target in search of a few items and decided to briefly visit the stationary section. I was on a time constraint, as I had plans to see my aunt that afternoon and other errands to run beforehand, but, I told myself that I was just going to breeze through it; I lied. As soon as I entered the aisle, I was in heaven. I walked up to the pens and started perusing, taking up a few different kinds from which I would allow myself to choose one from. Next, I walked over to the mechanical pencils and, after a little digging, found a singular pink one that came with an extra eraser (I’d never seen that before) and, more importantly, extra lead. Of course, I had to get it. Then finally I turned around, and allowed myself the pleasure of looking at the notebooks for the first time. Seeing as how I was purchasing new writing tools, it seemed only fair that they have something new to write in as well.

I must have spent close to an hour in that section, leafing through all of the different notebooks that they had. I felt as if I was in a sea of notebooks. At one point, I discarded my purse and latte on the floor so that I could have full use of both of my hands. Unfortunately, other than a small notebook, none of them spoke to me. Small notebooks are great, but I find I write better with the normal sized ones. Maybe because there is simply more room to write on.

I left Target, feeling slightly incomplete, and drove across the parking lot to a food store that was nearby. Upon parking my vehicle, I realized that I was right next to a Staples. I thought to myself, they must have full-sized notebooks in there for me, so I went in. I had barely stepped foot through the doors, when I was immediately distracted from my task by an entire aisle of writing tools. I stopped in front of some pens and, was about to lose myself amongst them, when I came to my senses and backed away; I had just purchased some. Next, I stumbled upon a section of post-its…more post-its than you could ever imagine. I wanted to buy all of them, but compromised and allowed myself the luxury of one, singular post-it; a purple rectangle embossed with shoes on the bottom, left-hand corner. Perfect. I left the post-it aisle and continued my journey, holding back the urge to walk into the next one, which was full of folders and binders, until finally, I made it to the notebooks

Slowly, I gazed over every single one. I was, at first, disappointed with their collection; it seemed like Target had an exuberant amount of which, Staples just did not seem to possess. Then I looked more closely. By this time, my latte was long-gone, so I had no obstacles in my way. I plunged into the notebooks, picking the occasional one up, examining it closely, and always, putting it back. Frustrated, I was about to leave, when I spotted a flower-covered one peaking out from behind a few plain ones. I pulled it out from underneath and looked inside. Not only did the lines meet all of my qualifications, but the pages were watermarked with flowers running down the right-hand side. I took both the notebook and my shoe post-it, and headed directly to the register, ignoring the urge to explore any further. I handed the cashier the money, took my purchases, and walked out of the store with a smile on my face. It’s the simple, nerdy things that make me happy.

Ever since I finished the last novel that I was reading, I have been at an impasse.  No matter what I do, I have not been able to get into my next novel…and, it has nothing to do with the second one.  This is not the first time that this has happened to me, generally, it occurs after I have completed an exceptionally great novel.  So, what do I do?

I’ve tried it all: reading another piece by the same author, picking a different genre, alternating with a classic, leafing through fashion magazines (I’ve recently discovered that, with the exception of my beloved Vogue, I find most magazines boring), I’ve even taken breaks from reading altogether.  Bottom line, none of these always work because they’re not what I crave.  It’s frustrating, when all you want to do is relax with a novel, but…you just can’t bring yourself to do it. 

Enter two things.  The first, is that I have now given that novel to two people and, have forced them to read it, so that I can continue to vicariously read it along with them, whist they bring up different parts for discussion; discussing literature is almost as much fun as reading it.  I have to admit though…I am a bit jealous of them, because I want to actually be reading it and experiencing it, but this is the next best thing.  The second thing is that now, since Vogue has just come out, I think I will be able to distract myself enough to then be able to pick up my new novel again.   But unfortunately, sometimes, the only thing that works is time.

What is it about the cold weather that drives us indoors? Why is it that the summer is more desirable? In the summer, I don’t walk out of my house and say that I’m going to brave the heat wave. During the hottest days, I put my sunglasses on, wear my hair up, and stroll leisurely around in the sun, ignoring the fact that sweat is coming out of my pores. I let my body drink up the sun’s natural vitamin d and, my skin obtains a healthy glow.

In the winter, I walk with my head tilted slightly down, my shoulders hunched inward, trying to keep my scarf in place and protect myself from the crisp wind. Although a sunny day still brings a smile to my face, the shock of the frigid temperature instantly takes it away. The only time that I am genuinely satisfied with the winter is on a “warm” day.

Its funny how, the temperatures that we run away from in one season, we run to in the other. They both boast extreme temperatures albeit, in opposite directions, but how different are they really? As a child, I didn’t mind the change. I played in pools in the summer and tried to build igloos with my brothers in the winter. We never actually succeeded at that; more often than not, our igloos looked like poor attempts at small, circular, incomplete forts. My brothers would get into snowball fights and, I would occasionally throw one or two, when no one was looking.

Then I grew up and my whole viewpoint changed. Instead of playing outside during the cold months, I’d rather be indoors drinking a glass of wine by the fireplace. In the summer, I could live at the beach, or really, anywhere outdoors; I never want to leave the sun. Can we only ever enjoy both seasons when we are young? Does your mind just automatically press a switch when you enter into adulthood?

We dress in layers for one and shed our clothes for the other, but are they really so different? Is one really better than the other? I don’t think one is. It’s not the seasons that change between childhood and adulthood, it’s us, individually, that do. We seem to feel that, in order to grow up, we have to stop having fun, and in the process, we lose some of our appreciation for nature and all it’s beauty because, the winter, although cold, can be just as beautiful as the summer.