As I'm sure even the sun−kissed Californians were able to glean from last Saturday's storm, New England has boarded a one−way direct flight to winter and believe you me, we're going to be here till mid−April "weather" you like it or not.
As a Northern New Englander myself, seeing snow before Halloween is by no means rare, and in my New Hampshire stomping grounds, trick−or−treating with long johns and neck gaiters is not only condoned but encouraged. Nothing says "Happy Halloween" like the wailing scream of a frostbitten sugar−high four−year−old on Oct. 31. Around Tufts, those picturesque rust−colored leaves that are painting the campus beautifully will soon be replaced by a brownish slush, and if you, unlike me, made the terrible, terrible blunder of not joining the ski team, you're in for a long couple of months.
But back to Halloween for now. What a great holiday. It's like Christmas for college kids, except with more booze, fewer clothes, less composure and no presents.
My Halloweekend kicked off on Friday night with probably one of the top ten most wholesome costumes for a girl that night. A friend and I dressed as the twins from "The Parent Trap" (1998), and it was a real hit as we pranced around quoting the movie. However, in light of an inexplicable bout of amnesia, that seems to be all I can remember from Friday and will now move on to Saturday night's observations.
Let's recall: Saturday night was a f−−king blizzard. Thus I made the executive decision to preserve my remaining shred of dignity by skipping round two of Halloween parties and settled for a relaxing night — after a hasty cost/benefit analysis, I remembered that Tufts frat parties aren't, like, soooo fun that they are worth freezing my toes off. Around 10:30 p.m., I left South with a friend to go back to Wren. Handily, I had been doing errands earlier so I got to drive my car the .55 miles that I'd become so accustomed to walking, which was great given the inclement weather.
As I was unlocking my car, I noticed what must have been two baby prostitutes clad in short dresses and high−heel shoes standing in six inches of snow outside of South. As I was in the midst of deciding which emotion — pity, or second−hand embarrassment — was more prominent at this sight, they confirmed that it was the latter by stumbling and slurring "HEY can you give us a ride to 123!?" Feeling uncomfortable and pretending not to hear, I jumped in my car, warmed it up and cleaned it off. About five minutes later when I got going, I laughed at the hilariously small amount of progress the two snow bunnies had made in their quasi−NQR trek to Packard Avenue.
So readers, winter is coming. Don't let this week's sunshine deceive you, because before you know it you'll be trudging to Tisch through a foot of snow and then slipping on the ever−wet floor upon arrival. Every weekend girls will be faced with the winter−party dilemma of either hustling through the cold half−naked, or running the risk of having their black North Face Denalis mixed up with someone else's in a drunken stupor — see TuftsLife for examples. Other than that, I know very little about the party scene in the winter, but from what I hear there's a tangible lull as everyone realizes that holing up in their beds with a movie is the stronger play than fratting. I for one will survive by going skiing every weekend December through March, but to the rest of you suckers, good luck and godspeed. You're gonna need it.
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Chelsea Stevens is a sophomore who has not yet declared a major. She can be reached at Chelsea.Stevens@tufts.edu.
