You wake up for a grisly exam and you do okay–better than you thought you would, given the circumstances–but still it’s the GRE, and you don’t even know if you even intend to go to grad school and you woke at six-twenty on a Saturday, so it’s kind of a bleak morning. And then you go to work and the only thing your interviewee can talk about is your dining hall’s incredible bacon. You’ve never tried the bacon. But, yes, you agree, your dining hall is fabulous. Still, no reflective questions work. And so it somehow ends up that the highlight of your day is the trip to Walmart to pick up the snow tires you ordered online, because who the hell knows where your snow tires from 2010 wound up and EVERY SINGLE Colorado native you know won’t shut up about the disastrous winter to come and you no longer have the luxury of walking to school because you live in the westside now, which is lovely, but requires an often-precarious (even without ice) drive down Uintah.
So the Walmart trip was a joy, as you are very, very excited about your snow tires. Last winter your little car completed a full spin on a moderately icy road that wasn’t all that icy at all. Last winter your car was adorned merely with all-weather tires. But back in 2010–when you drove down rocky Uintah every day (because you lived only a five minute walk from you live now) and sometimes twice a night you sped thirty minutes south on the I-25 to see a boy you supposedly liked-liked–everything was white, no other cars were out, it was just you blaring into the snow that looked like the stars you road into on Space Mountain at Disneyland. And it was your first Colorado winter, your first season trekking on ice, but your car had snow tires and you didn’t spin once.
You slid maybe once or twice, but only during your first month. Understandable. You and the Boy and his family and your Dad back in California were still proud of your driving skills. But you knew the truth: your little car is simply a beast with the right shoes.
So the new snow tires that now sleep in your garage are very exciting.
And then, after Walmart, your day improves even more when you drive to Staples because–even after roaming the aisles for what felt like the whole weekend–you couldn’t find a protractor at Walmart for your Astronomy course. So to Staples you go. But you take the long way, through Garden of the Gods, and you’re singing, and you’re exhausted, and you’re loving on the sunset. And, though you vowed to stop taking mediocre photos with your cellphone, after five minutes of standing gawking at the view like the awed tourist you will always be, you take the photo anyway. Because sometimes the outlook from the Staples parking lot is too spectacular to ignore.
By the end of the day, the morning’s GRE is a memory of fluff. It was just another thing you checked off your weekend to-do list.