gratitude-a-thon day 2093: you should be grateful

I love winter people (not really). They’re always boasting those rosy read cheeks, sporting a few layers of Polartec clothing, ready for some jaunty frigid action at any moment. They would ski jump off a roof, or ice skate the Charles. If you asked them if they’d like to snowshoe to the Berkshires, they’d be all like, “Let’s fucking go.” They are the bodies that thrive on BRRRRRR and never fear a broken limb, ski, or skull. They don’t know from chilly. They don’t cry when the thermometer drops. A meteorologist warning about a cold snap we’ve never experienced before excites them. The one thing they are not? ME.

I used to like winter. I used to love the intricate lovely flakes that canceled school and called for a full day of sledding. I was an avid ice skater, barely missing a weekend. I layered up and wasn’t bothered by my frostbitten hands or toes. I even learned to ski in high school and in my cute color-coordinated down overalls and matching jacket, the winter did not seem like The Worst Thing That Could Happen to Someone that it does now.

Now. Now and in the last decade, I have developed a deep hatred for Old Man Winter. I would like to hire a lawyer and sue whoever created temperatures below 55. Keep your fur boots and your trendy puffers. I’m just not into you.

Which is why, I am in LA for the month of February, enjoying a view of the ocean, a sky of sunshine, and temps in the 60’s and 70’s. I literally feel like I hit the Powerball of Luck. As both my neighbors watched their pipes freezing over the weekend. I was watching surfers kill half pipes. I wake up every morning to the view of waves and an upturned grin on my face.

You want to talk gratitude? I am grateful I wasn’t home for the outrageous, “generational” cold we had this past weekend. And everybody who knows me should be grateful too, because let’s face it nobody can whine about cold better, more consistently, or cloyingly than I can.