Traffic Jams

I hate snow. Yesterday, when I went down to the basement of the Science Classroom Building for my bio lecture, the sun was shining and the grass was clear. The moment I step out an hour and a half later, there's already a one-inch layer of snow on the ground. "Shut up!" I say loudly, pulling my hood over my head. Unfortunately, my cultural anthropology professor was walking by the moment I said that and turned to say "Excuse me?" Then she recognizes me and we hike together through the snow and I walk with her to the Weisman, where her car is parked. She's such a cool lady. She's all Southern and stuff. She reminds me of a more sassy version of my grandma.
After trekking back to bio lab, then doing a stupid computer-simulated activity about ecosystems, I waited at the bus stop for the Campus Connector for like 10 minutes and then I went to West Bank to retrieve my car from my new-found parking spot in front of my friend Reha's place (it's a little far, but it's cheap and I think I'll get the hang of timing soon enough). So after braving the snow for about 15 minutes (slipping and sliding on both East and West banks with reprieve only in the Connector), I'm so glad to get back to my car, I'm calling to it from 50 yards away. When I finally make it in the car, I realize that the whole thing is completely covered in an even 2 inches of snow all around. I had already taken off my coat. The exertion from plowing my way through the unshoveled sidewalks and snow in my eyes made me hot and I stripped down to my inside clothes the moment I got into the car. Still hot, I convince myself that I can quickly clean the car without freezing any body parts off.
So I jump out with my scraper/brush and prance around the car, cleaning the windows and rearview mirrors. Then mother of all snow clean-ups: the roof. Having an SUV sucks in the sense that you always have to clean off your roof lest the snow on top of your car drench the car behind you on the drive back home (unfortunately for me, I didn't realize that I'd be crawling at a 2 mile per hour speed all the way home, so cleaning the roof was no necessity). After cleaning the roof, I realize that I saved others from my snow in their faces but neglected myself: the nose of my Jeep Laredo is covered with ever-falling snow. So I play a game with the windshield wipers, who seem bent on locking my darting scraper in their timely grasps. I clean the nose of the car, around the base of the wipers, the tops of the rearview mirrors, everything. By the time I'm done, the car looks like it just came from a long vacation in Pasadena. Then I realize my stupidity.
After clearing all the snow off the car, I sent it all crashing down on my shoes. By the time I get into my car again, the pinky on my left foot feels like I put a small non-melting icicle in my shoe. So I slip off the soaking-wet Deisels and stick my foot in the deep recesses under the steering wheel. I put the heat on the foot mode, but the only thing coming out is cold air. So I panic and scenes of people calling me Madam Limps-a-Lot come flashing through my brain. I whine a bit to myself and as the air heats, the smell of wet feet permeates the car. "EWWWW!" I cry. I decide t o crack open a window then I jump over my back seat in search of my emergency kit (every Minnesotan car must have one) and retreive my brand spanking new blanket. It's electric blue. I got it at Old Navy when I went with Aliyah and Basmah this summer. So I tuck it around myself, but I don't want to put it by my feet because, frankly, I don't want it to smell like wet feet.
When I finally finish whining about the snow and my toe falling off, I pull out of the parking lot and end up waiting to get on 35W for approximately 9 minutes. I counted. The light next to Bobby and Steve's auto world went red about 7 times before I was the first car at the front of the turn lane. I'm listening to the new Amr Diab CD. I don't know if you categorize belting out the lyrics while looking into the eyes of perfect strangers stuck in the traffic with you as listening, but I do. Just as a side note, he is such a talented vocalist. All the crap people say about him being cheesy is true, but it will never undermine the power of his voice. I'm obsessed with this new CD. Although, unfortunately, a couple of tracks have been cut short in sacrifice to the gods of song piracy.
When I finally get on the exit to 35W, I see that the highway is either on pause or there's some major traffic. The stillness was so surreal, it made me uneasy, so I decide to take 55/Hiawatha home. Don't let me make decisions again. Why? Hiawatha is clear up until about 200 yards after exiting onto it. There are stop lights all the way through and about a million cars driving in two lanes. It takes me 48 minutes, or about 14 repeats of my favorite song on the Amr CD to get to the interection of Minnehaha and Hiawatha. Although I'm tempted to park my car and walk home (it's like 20 more miles, but I'd get home faster walking than driving), I force myself to look on the bright side: at least this gives me some time alone to think.
While still marvelling at the wonder that is Amr Diab's voice, I decide to see what's on the radio. "Calling All Angels" by Train is on, so I chill there and listen to the song while watching the wheels of the car in front of me spin slowly as we inch forward on this epic journey. The snow the car treads on packs onto the wheel and as it is lifted from the ground, breaks away in chunks like the pieces of a puzzle about a cloud. I serenely watch this process until the car in front of me changes lanes and I snap back to the radio. They're having some call-in thing about people who've found messages in bottles. After listening for a while and wanting to smack the DJ for saying "by golly" seriously, I switch the station to B96. At least they don't say "by golly" here.
By the time B96 has reached its 2nd commercial break, I'm on 494W next to Hwy 77. All my "at least you have some time on your own" talk falls away as I go from one packed highway going 2 miles per hour to another packed highway going 2 miles per hour. What made me think this was better than 35W? Frustrated, I go onto Killbrew Ave/Rd/St/Blvd and take a loop around the Mall of America. I feel like that Street Racer guy just because I'm going 30 miles an hour. Maybe I better slow down. I see Old Shakopee Road in the distance. YYYYYYES! My eye then slowly retracts itself from the sign that seems to be glowing and my ears turn off the choir singing "Hallelujah" and I see the 60 cars that stand between me and the road to home. Bring back the choir!!! I think. Unlikely for me, there is nary an outlet in sight. So I concede to the fact that I still have about 20 mnutes to get to my house. I slowly make my way through Old Shakopee, and then a cop turns onto the street. Naturally, I check my speedometer, but I'm going 7 miles per hour. I doubt I have much to worry about.
By this time, the heat has been on for so long that I can just turn it off and generate my own. Where's my switch? Did I grow a defrost, foot, foot-face, & off dial on my body somewhere, too? I pull into Burger King to get som pop. I'm so dehydrated. So I count some change from the abundance in my car and get back on the dreade Old Shakopee road.
20 minutes and a meduim diet coke later, I was pulling into my driveway. My leg's tense as hell, I don't think I can get out of my car. I get out and run in place a bit to get some blood back into places I forgot I had. Next time, I'm just gonna go to Coffman and chill there until I know that not one person will be on the high way on my way home. It's been three hours since I left the U. I walk into my kitchen, vowing never to get into my car again, then my mom informs me that I will be taking my little brother to basketball practice today. If it wasn't five minutes away, I tell myself, I'd never get in that car again.