Dear snow: I'm sorry I hate you
The only thing I like about winter: My Uggs.
I understand that the planet needs snow, and I respect that. I don't hate moisture, or the differing climates or seasons changing or anything else involving the beautiful Earth doing what it needs to do in order to keep us selfish humans alive. But what I don't understand is people who "like" cold weather.
To me, people who say they love cold weather are akin to people who enjoy threesomes, pub crawls, shopping at Walmart and camping. I see no reason to willingly engage in any of those activities; in fact, you couldn't pay me to enjoy them (unless camping comes with a bed, four walls, a decent restroom and Cinemax).
I meet people who come to Colorado to ski and are totally perplexed by the fact that I don't ski at all -- yet I live here. I don't like riding horses or watching the Broncos, either, so maybe that makes me un-Coloradan. And I've often thought I was born in the wrong place -- mostly the wrong time period, but definitely the wrong climate. Because I hate snow.
When I briefly lived in New York City a half-decade ago, the winter weather was much more cruel than it is in Denver, no doubt. I have to remember that Colorado weather is fairly mild most of the time, contrary to the belief of many warmer-climate- dwellers who think we live in an arctic wonderland nine months out of the year. (As for Denver's supposed idyllic snowy appearance: Although the snow looks pretty as it falls, as soon as it hits the ground, it turns into pollution-covered mini-iceberg formations that will stay glued to the sidewalk until June.)
New York has that kind of face-freezing, knee-deep-in-frozen-gutter-water-sloshing, slipping-on-the-mini-ice-rinks-that-are-subway-entrance-steps kind of cold. But it's also New York City: It's hard to hate anything in New York City once you fully realize that you're there and that it's probably the greatest city on earth.
I don't remember hating winter as a child, but looking back, I don't have any fond memories of it, either. The only things I recall about snow season were frozen snot-sicles stuck to my raw, peachy face, and little fingers and toes that couldn't feel anything after being made to play outside for hours. I also recall riding in a 1970 Volkswagen bus to school with the sliding door frozen open. (That's a fantasy I'll save to shred on another day -- the romantic notions that others have surrounding traveling the country in a VW bus. I've done it. It fucking sucks.)
Then there was that time in the early 2000s -- the blizzard of, I don't know, 2004, maybe? -- when I got stuck in an apartment with my sort-of ex-boyfriend and my roommate for five days. After four years together, he and I were off and on at that point, but he eventually left me for said roommate. How I didn't catch on to their connection during the five-day nightmare we spent getting drunk at bars because they were the only places open within walking distance is beyond me. But I'm extremely naive. And I was drunk. It was a bad combination.
Digging cars out of the snow, getting stranded for days inside my own house, standing in the cold waiting to get into a show, a movie or a restaurant -- these are all things I look forward to never doing again. Being in the snow or cold willingly? I try not to at all costs. I just don't think I'll ever enjoy temperature below 65 degrees, much like I will never understand the appeal of hot sauce r horror movies: I don't get why anyone would willingly give themselves heartburn or want to feel scared intentionally. It seems counterintuitive.
I just want it to be spring again, when I can ride my bike wearing nothing but a tube-top jumpsuit and SPF 100 sunscreen. But until then, I'll dream of wearing my Uggs on the beach. Because, yes, I am that person in front of you at the grocery store wearing Uggs, stretch pants and a parka when it's 40 degrees outside. Because that is cold as hell.
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