It’s a beautiful day in Flagstaff, 70 degrees and sunny. Bikers and long boarders are enjoying the sunshine and freshmen have scattered across the quad tanning, playing volleyball and slack lining. The view from your window is flawless and it makes you think, “Days like these are the reason I didn’t go to ASU.” You put on your dress and Target sandals or board shorts and tank, then boldly step outside, ready for the day when — BAM! You’re hit with 30-mph winds that knock your Volcom hat right off your head or blow your new paisley sundress over your face, confusing and blinding you. You immediately regret the choice not to wear biker shorts underneath your outfit or bring along a jacket. You always bring a jacket, man, this is Flagstaff.
You begin your trek to the bus stop, pushing against the continuous wall of wind, unless, God forbid, the wind is at your back. The wind throws your hair in front of your eyes so you can barely see the other victims of the weather and their futile attempts to compose themselves. Maybe it’s knocking the straps of your backpack around, slapping you from time to time or knocking your lanyard back and forth against your chest, repeatedly stabbing you with your own car key.
You’ve reached the sweet salvation of the bus stop, or so you think. That bus isn’t coming anytime soon. When it does, you fight through the sea of your terrified peers; it’s every man for himself. But you make it, you’re on the bus. Granted you’re on the last step of the bus, but you’re on it nonetheless. The driver goes to close the doors and it happens. The doors hit your backpack. You look at the bus driver, he looks at you and you both know what’s coming next. You’re telepathically begging him not to do it, but he says, “I’m sorry you’re going to have to get off the bus.”
You can feel all of the people you cut off smirking at you, satisfied that karmic justice was rendered. Screw it; you’re just going to walk. You start toward your class. You put in your headphones and blast the volume but the wind is still blowing louder than Katy Perry’s latest hit. Son of a – SMACK! Last week’s copy of The Lumberjack spanks you right in the face. That’s it. You’re going home. You can take it when Haeger ignores five feet of snow, but how could NAU still be “operating normally” today? You’re going back to bed; the wind is just too much. The wind (the horror) and it’s springtime in Flagstaff. It’s not easy being a Lumberjack in all that wind.