Anyone who knows me very well is probably familiar with my feelings about cold weather. If, however, you have somehow missed my numerous posts, comments, and general complaining, let me just say that I hate it. I can’t think of much that I dislike more than being cold, aside from being wet and cold.
Scott, Kristy and I in the snow in Colorado. Yes, I’m the one sitting in it, and I bet I’m both wet and cold.
I think there is an assumption on the part of those that have known me only since I have lived in the New Orleans area that I grew up here or in a similarly warm climate, and that I am not accustomed to the cold. But this is not the case. I spent my childhood in the Texas Panhandle where winters were cold, windy and sometimes very snowy. I remember school being canceled a few times when the wind and snow combined to form drifts as high as rooftops. I learned how to ski when I was a teenager. I even took driver’s ed in the snow. (Coach Sartor, I’m still so very sorry about that 360. It was truly an accident, and I was as terrified as you were.) I lived in the Chicago suburbs for two winters in my early thirties. I’m quite familiar with cold weather. I have all the gear for it. I just simply do not like it. Not even a little. And I avoid it as much as possible. With regard to the photographic evidence showing me apparently enjoying it back in the 70s…I’m thinking those pictures were photoshopped.
Scott and I in front of our house on Aspen Street. This one was marked 1978.
One of the benefits of living this far south is that winters are mild and short. I never complain about the heat in the summer. I actually enjoy it, for the most part. But as I sit here lamenting the freezing temperatures with my favorite cozy blanket wrapped tightly around me, a fire burning in the fireplace, and hot chocolate in hand, I can’t help but think that this is not what I signed up for. It was a frigid 18 degrees when I left my toasty house for the gym at 5 a.m. It’s a nippy 21 now, and it’s only supposed to get above the freezing mark for about five hours today. I have not taken off my jacket or scarf since arriving back at home, and if I could type in them, I would be wearing my gloves. (For the record, those “texting gloves” are for suckers, one of whom, apparently, happens to be me.)
I usually begin complaining about the weather when the temperature dips into the 50s, and I do realize that I’m being a gigantic wuss when I refer to that as cold. But 18 degrees…that’s chilly in anyone’s book. Yes, I know it’s a lot colder up north, and I am sympathetic to those dealing with extreme conditions, but this is the difference…those people choose to live in areas where winters are harsh. They are familiar with the annoyances and risks of living in such a region. They expect it. I, however, chose the swamp. It’s not supposed to ice over in the swamp! I thought I traded freezing temps for gators in my yard, and I was ok with that. But 18 degrees? That’s just unacceptable. I hope the mosquitos are freezing at least…
*In the time I spent searching for photos, it warmed up to a balmy 25 degrees. Time to break out the flip flops!
The kids with the snowman the built when we had real snow a few years ago, and the “snowman” I prefer…made from the sand of a warm beach.
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