I have a tendency to be a bit of a complainer. I really do try to be more positive, but sometimes the inner “me” just wins.
That being said, I HATE THE COLD.
I grew up in South Jersey and I always hated winter. Spring was exciting since my birthday is in April. Summer often consisted of church on Sunday with the family, then piling in the car with friends to drive down the shore for the day. Mack and Manco’s pizza on the boardwalk was the perfect end to the fun-filled day, and we settled in for the hour or so drive home. Fall meant pretty leaves, a break from the sweltering heat and random summer-like days that made me smile.
But Fall was just the stepping stone to Winter, and I liked to curl up in a ball and pretend that dreaded season wasn’t coming. I never really understood why I hated the season so much and started to wonder if I suffered from Seasonal Depression. Was it the dark morning and dark evenings that made me so blah? Was it the teeny bit of snow we always got, that first looked so beautiful but then settled into black, gross slush? Whatever the reason, I just wanted to hibernate until I could hear the birds chirping again.
When I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia, it suddenly made sense. In a nutshell, cold hurts. It reaches its long, chilly fingers into my already aching body and wreaks havoc on my joints. I shiver like I have a fever, and even after entering a warm room, it seems to take forever for my body to stop shaking. Our house could be 70 degrees but I am firmly planted on the couch, covered in a fleece blanket, and sometimes I’m still shivering.
My husband has discovered that warm, fuzzy socks are one of the best gifts he can give. He can run with the dogs wearing shorts and a t-shirt, and I’m in my raspberry-colored-snow-bunny coat as if I lived in Alaska. I check the temperature like an addict, always praying for that first number to at least start with a 4. 50s and above, I’m happier, but the minute that first number becomes a 3, I start to shut down.
This winter, I think God smiled on me extra hard. It’s been mostly mild and we’ve even had several 60-degree days. I could never live somewhere with frigid temperatures all season, and Alex could never live somewhere that didn’t have 4 real seasons. I’m happy where I live, but part of me still dreams of knocking him unconscious (but in a loving, gentle way), kidnapping him and *SURPRISE!* We now live on an island.
I just don’t think we could find jobs. I doubt “sun-bather,” “goddess of the beach” or “lives-with-sand-between-her-toes” will earn me kudos on a resume.
So for now, I hate you, cold. But you won’t be here forever. I’ll snuggle up with my fleece and dream about Memorial Day.