It's ten degrees. TEN. The heater runs incessantly. On account of all the TEN DEGREES! When I dropped The Rock Star off at school today I walked him 35 yards to his classroom, said goodbye, and walked back to the car. My lungs were aching with the chill. My face was prickly and taut. I came home and checked the weather. ONE DEGREE. As in, 31 below freezing. As in, 74 below what I consider to be a happy temperature.
I WENT TO COLLEGE AT THE BEACH, PEOPLE! It was consistently in the 70's and 80's. Occasionally, in the winter, we had to suffer through weather in the 60's. There may have been a time or two when the thermometer started with a 5 and we bundled up in sweaters and scarves. I miss San Diego beach weather. Because right now, I am looking forward to the pool in the dead heat of summer. I am looking past February and March and April and all the way to July and August when I will be warm.
The summers here are like the conjoined twins of the summers I grew up with. They are hot and with that comes tank tops and pools and splash pads and flip flops and I love it. The autumn is beautiful. I never really knew fall until I moved here. And I was very pleased to make her acquaintance. December, even, is fantastic. Snow on Christmas? Yes, please. Hot cocoa and spiced cider and a fire crackling in its place? Indeed with an emphatic head nod.
When January rolls around I want to climb under my covers and only come out on the warm days in spring (which are separated by the bipolar cold days of spring). The skies are cold. Life is frozen. The earth is dead.
But underneath it all lies the hope of summer.
And when that doesn't feel like quite enough, there is the hope of San Diego.