Cold Weather Is The Junkest
It's been just too cold here lately. The thin almost-winter sunshine still hasn't melted the last of Friday's early morning snowfall, and I need an electric snuggie.*
I'm no good in the cold. For awhile I liked it well enough, calling my sister to report every single snowflake we got that first year in the Northwest. We lived in the foothills of Hurricane Ridge, so you can imagine how many weather reports my sister put up with.
We got lots of the white stuff up in the mountains. It was beautiful, I'll give it that. I loved watching fat, reckless flakes cover everything everywhere as I curled up like a cat next to our fireplace. I remember feeling happy about all that sky garbage. We hunkered down, just like hurricane season back home. Only we got to go out and make snowmen and then come back in for mugs of steaming hot chocolate.
It was all so novel, you know? Snow days.
But then there was all of the dealing with snow. The shoveling that I for sure wasn't going to do and the waiting for plows that mostly didn't come. The not getting paid because the workplace was closed, or the having to wade out there in all of that winter because work was open and we needed to get paid. The year our house flooded because four feet of snow has got to go somewhere when it melts, and the snow plow left a detour for the whole street's runoff down into our driveway. And how it seemed so obvious once it happened, but because I didn't know anything about snow, I...just didn't know.
I didn't know much, as it turned out.
So now the novelty's worn off and I want my green-and-bright Mele Kalikimaka. I mean, I know Seattle doesn't get nearly as much snow as Port Angeles. And nowhere in Washington is anything like Khabyardino. It's negative fifty-nine there today. Negative. Fifity-nine.
But still. It's not Kāneʻohe either. Not seventy-five degrees. I was born for seventy-five degrees. I blossom like the delicate fucking flower I am, when I'm in my weather.
Right now, on this thirty-five degree day, I am exactly the opposite of blossoming. Hot cocoa helps, of course. Just not enough.
(Oh my god I left seventy-five degree Decembers for thirty-five degree Decembers on purpose and I just don't think I should be trusted to make any life decisions anymore.)
Winter 2005. At least Jonas loves the snow.
*Celine, for the love of god I am just joking please do not get me an electric snuggie.
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