It is snowing today in Toronto and it feels like nothing counts.
It’s that December feeling, that hazy-holiday feeling, that end-of-semester feeling, that “fuck it, whatever” feeling. The snow cushions our intentions, muffles the din of the world. As we count down to New Year’s Eve, we throw caution out the snow-caked window, because there is only so much time left to create memories and be brave.
This was the mood that permeated my first date with my now-partner, and I’m half-convinced the date, let alone the entire relationship, would not have happened if not precipitated by December. December is a month when, if someone DMs me out of the blue to ask me out for coffee in a different city, I might just say yes.
In high school, December was exam time, when classes abruptly ended and we students were left to manage our own schedules for a while, almost like adults. We made 11 a.m. Starbucks runs with our friends before retiring to someone’s house for “study parties,” luxuriating in the novelty of not being in class during class hours. When an exam loomed, we would wander through the deep snow on our school’s campus and through the big glass doors, eyes darting around for people we knew. Some of my headiest high school memories are of those days, when crossing paths with your crush was less assured and thus more special when it did happen, in hallways, on snowy lawns, in the Pizza Pizza across the bridge where we all fortified ourselves between long essay-writing sessions trapped in the gym. The eerie quiet soundtracked our pubescent excitement. I could more easily say “You’re cute!” or “You know I’ve had a crush on you all year, right?” under the guise of yuletide truthfulness. It all felt justified and it all felt desperately important.