Winter is a Cruel Mistress…and Other Bad Metaphors

It’s happened: Winter has officially broken me.

I love seasons. I’m someone who comes from seasons. I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time over the years proclaiming my full-throated love for said seasons. The crispness of fall! Chilly sweater-weather! Oh, the love…so much love for life in the Northeast!

So no one was more surprised than me (or the husband) last week when I declared I was over winter, the cold, and everything else that came with it. I actually interrupted his day at work to tell him: Fuck seasons.

This alarming devolving of expression and sentiment isn’t normal. I grew up in Cleveland with snow. Loads of snow. I love love love snow. And over Christmas while I was back visiting family, we were treated to one of the most magnificent snowfalls: the kind that frosted dark tree branches until they sparkled, that draped across evergreens like dollops of meringue. I’m talking storybook pretty:

But then came the brittle, skin-biting cold. Cold that was so severe the pup couldn’t walk outside. We returned to New York and endured the bomb cyclone, which brought even colder cold. A shittier cold…which is ironic, because in this cold the pup refused to walk, literally refused to take a dump.

I grew edgier by the day, felt a depression setting in. And then, I got annoyed that someone such as myself, a season lover, would have such a reaction. But my heart was cold. And, yeah, I’ll draw that trite metaphor out even more: My love of the seasons was frozen. I mean, you see how bad this is, right? That lousy wording involving zero skill whatsoever? Playing off all things, temperature. My heart was cold? Christ, I can’t even write in this stupid, hateful weather.

But it’s gotten worse, because the day that I decided seasonal love was dead to me was the same day I started researching…wait for it…Florida. I know. It’s horrifying, and anathema to everything I’ve ever stood for. But, this is what I discovered: That’s where the sun is. That’s where all the heat has dropped to in this miserable, soul-sucking winter—a place in the country that I’d never ever considered. Really, tried my best not to think about. As of yesterday, my fantasies involved all things California. So, it turns out, I’m not the least bit loyal to any one state—basically if you have sun, I’m really digging you right now. I want to date you. I’ve turned into the thing that all season-lovers disdain: a warm-weather flake.

Today I got up and after the bruising cold of the past week, found that it was 18 degrees out. The pup actually walked all the way around the block this morning—a first in days and days—sniffing every bit of dirty midtown snow in his path. Eighteen degrees never felt so balmy.

It’s supposed to reach the 40s later this week, which, after what we’ve all gone through in the Northeast, should feel exactly like being in Florida.

Maybe I can do this after all.