When Matt and I go out for a walk in the snow, as we did on Saturday during the blizzard, it always starts off very sweetly. We hold hands and he chivalrously helps me with my footing. We marvel at how beautiful the trees are. I dust the snow from his beard. We smooch each other in selfies. And then the inevitable happens: Matt remembers the existence of snowballs. Pretty soon ice is melting down the nape of my neck and I am chasing him through the drifts, cursing, intent on revenge.
So on Sunday we split up. I went to Central Park with my mom and godmother to walk off some Indian food, and Matt went to Prospect Park to take snow day photos with his buddy. In so doing, we were able to avoid any future weather-related altercations. (Though the puppy below looks like it wanted to do some damage to Matt. But I could just be projecting. The memory of Saturday’s snowball—which eventually descended the length of my spine and made its way into my underwear—will stay with me for many winters to come.)