Change Clothes and Snows Somtimes it's difficult to tell when you no longer feel like a kid and start feeling like an adult. Maybe it's your high school graduation, or your first full-time job, or the day you move off your parents' private island and live on a farm for a month. One such event is happening to me: it's snowing, and I don't want it to. When you're a kid, snow is always your friend, and you wonder why all the grown-ups around you curse its arrival like the Nets coming to Brooklyn. You play in it, school closes, and those same grown-ups even pay you to move it for them. White gold is what it is. But now I don't care for God's dandruff so much. My school doesn't close for anything. They'd expect us to swim to Manhattan or parachute in if the trains weren't working (and then mark us down for being late--ain't city college grand?). So it just gets in the way. No one pays me to shovel their driveway anymore and playing in the snow makes people you feel funny when other people your age are getting married and starting 401(k)s. My glory days have passed. Almost time to enter the work force.