Seasonal Defect Disorder

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“We’re going to pay for this in January,” I said around Christmas, as temperatures in New Jersey for nearly the whole month of December were in the 50’s and 60’s, and even cracked 70 a couple times. “Unseasonably warm” is a term that is always music to my ears, and I enjoyed every minute of not having bone-chilling wind cut through every layer of clothing I have on, or not having to warm my car up for 20 minutes before I can grip the steering wheel and drive.

The last two winters in New Jersey were horrid, with bitterly cold day after bitterly cold day, driving winds that sliced through body and soul, snow, ice and the worst that the season can be known to bring. The “polar vortex,” as it was so called, was a nasty blast of frigid air that swept down from Canada to make everyone’s lives miserable here in the States.

With each passing year, my tolerance for the cold weather has grown as thin as the heaviest jacket feels as the icy gusts make its wear an exercise in futility. I cringe when the summer ends and white girls everywhere litter social media networks with their excitement for “hoodie weather” and pumpkin spice everything. I’ve become convinced that people who actually enjoy cold weather, even at Christmas time are certifiably insane. There’s nothing redeeming about frostbitten cheeks, having to shovel your car out of your driveway, or having to put on extra clothes, and when it comes down to it, winter is nothing more than a really bad excuse to not eat ice cream.

I used to like snow when I was a kid, but when you’re an adult (and a reluctant one at that), the fluffy white stuff that falls from the sky is a nuisance at best, and a disaster at worst. As a matter of fact, as I write this, the current weather report is calling for the possibility of up to TWO FEET of snow to blanket my home this coming weekend. Who knows, though? We could end up getting nothing. Meteorologists get to be wrong more than half the time and still get to keep their jobs. I’m fairly sure they just spin a big wheel in the weather room and tell us about whatever it lands on. What stunt nature is going to pull at any point in the future is a bigger mystery than whatever happened to the other guy from Wham!, or why razor cartridges are so expensive.

With each passing day, eternal sunshine and palm trees call my name. I long to dip my toes in the Pacific again, and to be able to do so every day if I wish. I dream of living in the place where 60 degrees is considered “cold.” Seasons are for the birds, but if there has to be one, I think you all know what that should be.

 

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