That Aprés Snow Glow
Making peace with not participating in the falling flakes action. Plus, Kate Hudson reps LA28, Mumford & Sons on repeat, and Popples!
There are people who like to play in the snow. And there are people who like to look at it. Can you guess which one I am?
During the (second) great Blizzard of 2026, I didn’t have to go far to engage if I wanted to. There was at least a foot of snow out on my balcony, but the thought of stepping onto it and falling backwards to make a snow angel didn’t occur to me until after I’d changed from my day pajamas to my night pajamas. And even then, those thoughts were: “That would make such a mess on the way back in,” and also, “Do I really want to look at an outline of my body for the next three weeks?”1
I did eventually go out. At around 3 p.m. on Monday, I threw on my HeatTek gear from Uniqlo and stepped into my sheepskin-lined Uggs with no destination in mind.
I barely made it around the block.
Some of the sidewalks were only half-shovelled, leaving a hardened slush better suited for swizzles on skates and someone with Alysa Liu’s dexterity.
Nearly everyone I saw either had a shovel in their hand or a dog or a kid by their side. All I had was my I.D. in my pocket and the new Mumford & Sons album in my ears.
Those people had purpose; I had curiosity. Still worthy, to be sure. But not enough to trump what else I had: anxiety and intolerance. The trees were pretty to look at with their drooping branches covered in powder, but they also seemed like they’d crack at any second. I didn’t feel like dying alone under a pile of snow on a one-way street in Bed-Stuy, so I opted to return home.
Also? I don’t like the cold. I don’t like being wet. I don’t like finding hardened, week-old tissues in the pocket of my coat and wiping my nose with my gloves instead. I don’t like having to wear gloves at all, let alone layers and hats that make my hair look limp and feel itchy because it’s been on for so long.
I had to remind myself of these admittedly sour indifferences as I lay there on the couch, with my curry-flavored potato chips from Trader Joe’s, scrolling through account after account of New Yorkers rolling giant snowballs and fashioning giant snowmen and sticking their face in giant snowmounds. Just. For. Fun.
“I love NY,” wrote one caption. “NYC at its best,” wrote another.
I double-tapped them all and shared a few as the FoMo radiated off my been-warm-for-hours-on-the-couch-with-snacks skin despite knowing that someone else’s fun is always another person’s meh. Beautiful, heartwarming, and soul-tingling, oui. But brrrr pass me some hot chocolate, please!
Determined to get to the bottom of my snow-way José attitude, I went to the source and the ultimate Winter Lover, my Mom.
“We always went out and played in the snow,” she said. “We’d watch movies, bake cookies, and drink hot chocolate…”
“Mom, the majority of those activities are indoors.”
We laughed. She reminded me that we also went to the nearby park with sleds, which she was sure I enjoyed. I thought of Calvin, who enjoys the beach, but doesn’t enjoy staying in a wet bathing suit outside the body of water that got him wet to begin with. Would this California kid be down with this kind of dampness?
Mostly, though, I remember the clothing. Freaky Freezies (or was it Freezy Freakies?), and their lack of any mobility, at least changed colors once you put snow on them. But those thick snowsuits with stirrups that required putting the socks on first, lest the snow creep over and in? So uncomfortable. Meanwhile, 40+ years later, I somehow ended up with a similar hat.
As a teenager in the mid ’90s, I tried to embrace winter by taking up snowboarding thanks to my first love, a blue-eyed artist from a few towns over who was already adept at the still-new sport. Somehow, after a few trips to nearby slopes covered in fake snow, I convinced my parents to buy me a board and all the Burton accoutrements. Eventually, they’d end up covered in a layer of dust in the attic after the blue-eyed boy broke my heart, and I subsequently broke my wrist when I attempted to “teach” my brother how to ride some years later. My problem? I never had “No Fear,” which is what the Stussy shirts that all the boarders (and us wannabes) wore, declaring it as a prerequisite for success.
Let’s also not forget the time in college—Syracuse University, mind you, which was more prone to serious snowfalls than where I grew up on Long Island—when I drove the backroads to a mountain one weekend and hit a dog who came out of nowhere. The fucking worst. Still makes me shiver.
In recent years, most of my romps with the white stuff were accidental or adjacent. Hikes in Sicily, Peru, and Wales took me to elevations where I suddenly found myself faced with flakes (accidental). While a glamorous work trip aboard the Orient Express took me to the French Alps, where I did little but sip vin chaud on a mountaintop (adjacent), and a late-spring dumping in Lake Tahoe showed that yes, Ms. Swift, snow on the beach is “weird but fucking beautiful” (accidental/adjacent).
I suppose if Dolly and Cal lived nearby, or any of my friends did, I’d be more apt to partake. Then again, I’m also not one to shy away from doing anything alone, or acting like a kid even without a kid around. Maybe I’m just a 47-year-old who much prefers sand in her bathing suit to snowflakes on her eyelids. In other words, the snow equivalent of people who come to yoga for savasana. I think the proper term for it is aprés ski, but I don’t ski (or snowboard, as it were), so let’s go with aprés snow. I am firmly on Team Aprés Snow! (But sans any clothing that states as much.)
On Tuesday, after a serious case of I-Ate-Too-Many-Chips took hold, I decided it was time to bask in the aprés snow by leaving the house for some exercise, fresh air, and, yes, to mingle with the merrymakers. Or, at least, their masterpieces. By this point, the sidewalks were in much better shape on my way to a nearby park, which had been dubbed “Snowman’s Alley” and “Snowmanhenge” on social media. While I’m sure it would’ve warmed my heart to see all the artists at work the day before, and to witness their glee and delight IRL rather than on a screen, this decidedly quieter after-effect was full of its own kind of joy.
I carefully shuffled through the park, mesmerized by all of the finished sculptures, most of which were fully intact. I saw mermaids and minions. Igloos and pyramids. A Snoopy and a snake. Frosty and Frosty’s friend with a scarf, and, of course, a carrot for a nose. It felt like being at a museum, which is far more my style than the slopes or a subway staircase covered in precarious precipitation. At first, I stuck to the perimeter. To the walkways designated for voyeurs. Then, not wanting to miss one, I decided to hop the small fence and zig-zag through the works themselves on the lawn, only to discover more and more, and to see their every curve and detail. What effort! And what perfect inspiration for this writer who, in the winter at least, is more comfortable basking in that aprés snow glow inside at the keyboard, writing about all she sees, feels, and thinks.
Also overthinking this week…
…whether my (overuse of my) phone is causing the headaches I’ve been having…which limited pre-sale seats to get for the Mumford & Sons tour in NYC…
Clickable*
*Reminder: By downloading the FREE Substack app, you’ll save your inboxes from overload and get to be part of the conversation. In between what I send to you and publish here, you can find me on the Notes feed yapping about this and that and posting some of the links below.
The resistance is in the carpool. | The NY Times (gift link)
On losing teenage idols and staying present. | WHAT IF IT ALL WORKS OUT
Investigating “Ski Girlies.” | Air Mail
When rooting for the home team means also rooting for the away team. | The NY Times (gift link)
Fashion Week: What does it all even mean? | Jess Graves
Recapping a life in magazines. The desire is real! | A Tiny Apt.
Watch ‘The Pitt,’ get an empathy exam. | The NY Times (gift link)
Prepare to be amazed by these 50 people shaping society. | WaPo (gift link)
The importance of “expertly curated experiences.” | Katie Horwitch
“The Post has always been a writers’ paper, a newsroom so thoroughly scrappy that simultaneously anything seems possible.” | The Atlantic
Why are we optimizing out of ‘the middle’? | Found Object
How you wear your scarf dictates your age. | The NY Times (gift link)
The dating profile prompt that will at least get laughs and likes. | Food & Wine
Alysa Liu “moves like water on a frozen surface.” | The NY Times (gift link)
French Friday, Vol 4: Desirable Desserts in Flatiron
French Friday is a series for Francophiles and anyone with an opinion and good taste from moi, a former almost-Parisienne for nine years, and other almost-or-actual-Frenchies that know their ‘oof’ from their ‘bof.’ The goal? To rate venues outside France on their Frenchness. Plus, an ‘en plus’ section with recommendations in France itself. On y va!
Watchable
I love love love that it’s Kate Hudson singing “California Dreamin’” as a promo for the LA Olympics in 2028. Not any other number of pretty young SoCal singers. But a 46-year-old Mom, mostly known for rom-coms and being a Nepo Baby from a star-studded family (of talents, no doubt). She is finally — finally! — getting the recognition she deserves following her award nominations for her role in Song Sung Blue. (Let it be known that I’ve been a fan since Almost Famous, which is my all-time favorite movie.) Well played, Olympic Committee, well played.
On Repeat: “Prizefighter” by Mumford & Sons
“I like the new Mumford, though all their music sounds kinda similar,” texted my sister after I urged her to listen to the sixth studio album, Prizefighter, which dropped a week ago today. To which I wrote: “💯” And “that’s why I love them! Reliability is good!”
She agreed and days later also became obsessed with the song “Badlands” sung with singer-du-jour Gracie Abrams. I’ve had the whole album on repeat for days now, and can confidently say it’s another banger with other songs such as “Conversations With My Son” and “Prizefighter” among those I’ve been caught singing aloud on the subway, in the shower, and, likely, in my sleep.
Souvenir: Popples
I’m editing the newsletter i/Edit, and just this week we published a wonderful feature on a woman who runs two companies, has four kids, and is the very definition of Getting Shit Done. In it, she expressed that the best part of her day is when she’s rearranging her kids’ Jellycats. Friends, I didn’t know what a Jellycat was while editing that piece, but I obviously looked them up and was instantly reminded of Popples. Maybe it’s not quite like-for-like, but remember the stuffed somethings that folded into themselves to become a ball for some unknown reason? They weren’t quite as personality-driven as Care Bears, or even as endearing as today’s Jellycats, but they were still sweet. Pretty sure my sister had one. Did you?
Editor’s note: The snow is nearly all gone already! Much shorter lifespan this time around.
Omg I laughed out loud!! I made that hat in the childhood photo! Same hat! The dog?? Forgot that….eek! And all that snowboard gear?? ‘Having it all’ runs in the family…I’m going yo read again for the laughs!
These days, I'm inclined to agree that snow is best observed from a distance and the lounge bar of the Brooklyn Apres-snow Club sounds like the perfect spot!