It finally snowed.
Every prediction for show during past two weeks has fallen flat, blown away by dry sunny skies. I used to not want snow at all, preferring to fast forward my life from January 1 to May 1. But then last year I started snowshoeing and things changed for me. I have been waiting for two months for the snow to come. The anticipation was killing me. It finally came on Saturday, but I wonder if there is enough to get out the snow shoes.
For me, snow meant no smog, no icky recycled already breathed air. It meant invigoration and pine trees when Darren and I ventured up Provo Canyon. It meant I could shed all the guilt from not working out in a germ-invested gym where sweaty, hyper people are trying to lose weight that they will gain again next year. Adios crazy gym people, I thought. You're all going to get sick touching all those handlebars. You're going to wear yourselves out and be bored in a month. But I am going up to the mountains.
I'm such a snot. But before we got a little snow, I was seriously thinking that I was going to have to join the ranks of gym-going people, eat my own words, and hate every minute of it. Guilt to exercise nags whether you're going to the gym or the mountains. So I might as well just exercise.
Let more of the white stuff come so I don't have to do that. At least the gym people are getting healthy while I am sitting around waiting for a snowy day.