Sun shines through my blinds, hitting my eyelids and making them stirr. I slowly expose my eyes to the sunlight pouring into my bedroom.

Realization hits me fast and I bolt upright and out of bed hastily to the window. The journey to my window seems like hours. I could just picture the two feet of snow covering my backyard and the rooftops, just as the weather reporters predicted. I can’t wait to go outside and be covered from my feet up to my thighs in snow.

Last night, as the snow and the strong winds shook up my backyard like a snowglobe, my Dad told me that this blizzard was to be as severe as the snowstorm that hit New York in 1892.

All these thoughts were buzzing around in my head as I made my way to the window.

I finally reach my destination. I eagerly open the blinds, my eyes shining and my lips curving into a smile — that quickly faded into a grimace of disappointment and discouragement.

“You’re kidding right?” were the only words I could make out.

I storm out of my room, slamming my door on my way out and making unnecessary and overly dramatic grunts as I stomp down the stairs.

I find myself in front of the french doors that lead to my backyard. I scan my lawn, put on my comical moonboots and head outside. I frown as soon as my boots (which are twice as tall as the snow) hit the ground.

The snow was extremely disappointing and completely overrated considering all of the hype. I am an understanding person, I get it, people make false predictions. But this? They closed roads, highways and stores. In New York they even shut down trains and subways.

I understand if the snowstorm was a little less severe than predicted, but honestly, was this even a storm?