Before Christmas, I told myself that once we got back from vacation, it would be January, which would certainly fly by, and then February was a short month already, not to mention the week of vacation tossed in there for good measure, and then it would be March. And March is when you are truly allowed to start thinking about spring.
Oh, it is finally finally March. And I am thinking about spring. But who am I kidding? I’ve been dreaming about spring since before Thanksgiving.
I was born in Wisconsin and we lived there until I was about 6, so I do remember a few very snowy days, but the vast majority of my growing up was done in Las Vegas, where it just simply does not get THAT cold. Sure, it freezes overnight during the “winter,” but that lasts for about six to eight weeks.
Then there was the brief three years I spent in Provo – just long enough to remind me that winter is not for me – before we headed to Texas where the weather was, at least in my book, pretty much perfect.
I distinctly remember coming back to Texas after Christmas 2008 and waiting outside the airport for Ralphie to pick us up. We’d dressed that morning in Utah, and now, a few hours later, I was stripping off my sweater, and pushing up the long sleeves of my shirt, and anxiously awaiting the cool AC inside Ralphie’s car. Bart and I said, “This is what January is all about.”
Today at lunch, some of the teachers were talking about how they can’t imagine living somewhere without seasons. I know many many people who feel this way, but I have lived away from them too long to care anymore. No spectacular colored leaves in the fall or heart-stopping joy at the first warm days of spring can make up for the months of cold, bone-numbing winter. No turtleneck sweater or peacoat is worth spending a full quarter of the year devising every possible way to avoid venturing outside.
Keep your seasons – I’ll take year-round summer.