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.

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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.