A Mild Winter’s Tale

No, sunny, unseasonably warm day in February, I will not be tempted by your charms. You cannot lure me into thinking that the period following fall is “not so bad.” I know what you are doing here. I saw “Jurassic Park,” and I know that nature always finds a way.

Mother Earth isn’t going to let us get away without a good, old-fashioned, desolate winter.  It’s like she’s dangling the sunny carrot of doom in front of us, and we don’t know when it will turn into a nine-day sleet storm.

I shudder to think of it. My people wandered in the desert for 40 years eating carbohydrates. Therefore:

  • When I see snow, I think, “apocalypse.”

    Putting the "no" in "snow" since 1525 B.C.E.

  • I refuse to retire my down accouterment until the temperature has surpassed 53 degrees.
  • Word association: You say, “cactus.” I say, “solidarity.”
  • Every election year, I threaten to move to Canada, but only if Canada and Mexico agree to switch locations.

Furthermore, it’s not just the cold that I hate. It’s all the things that go along with it. I do not understand:

  • Performance! Fleece!
  • [insert any number below 40] degrees
  • Skiing!
  • Winter “wonderland”
  • The Anti-Ugg Movement, comprised of those blessed with optimal circulation, who don’t empathize with my frigid feet in the month of (normal) January

I know, I know, I should be happy that winter is going easy on us. But instead, I am trembling in fear. While we are frolicking in the unnatural 60-degree temperatures, Eastern Europe is having the Mel Gibson of all winters, killing civilians with its aggressive cold spell.

In the words of Ned Stark of Winterfell, “winter is coming.” And it might be in April. Or August.

Come to think of it, I miss the season where I refuse to go snowboarding, arm myself with a space heater and don some sweet Sweater Uggs. Dammit, winter, come back to me!


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