It's the same to me now as when I was 5: Snowstorms mean freedom, joy, and happy bliss.

	Picture yourself old and frail and mulling over your life. Are you going to say, "You know, i'm really glad I went to work that day 50 years ago." Not Likely. So, blow something off today, and go skiing. Go now!
Skiing deep powder is like having a falling dream. You fall into cloudlike snow, snow covers your goggles and fills your astonished mouth. When it is all working right, your skis dive and then bounce to the surface like porpoises playing a tilted bay. Rhythm replaces fear, a sensation of floating creates an instant addiction; you want the falling and floating to go on forever.
	My skis rose and fell like dolphins playing in a placid cove. Now snow curved in a wave up my legs and chest and washed over my shoulders like white silk scarves. I am certain it was not pretty, my tracks more closely resembling the mark of Zorro than sinuous S's. But I blazed inside, giddy, hooked, in love forever.
I suspect meterologists not only never ski, they probably live in their studios, not caring to contaminate predictions with factual experience.