I hate this weather, and I’m vocal about it.
Yes, seasons are pretty. Watching the leaves change color is unreal. When I drove around as the snow was melting on roofs in January, I felt like I was living in the little white town my grandmother puts in the living room for Christmas.
But you know what’s not pretty? Cold rain. A whole new concept for my poor, tropical body that no one warned me about when I moved to North Carolina last year.
Last week I forgot what the sun looked like. It was so cold my bones hurt.
In Miami, where I used to live, you don’t need a raincoat. If it’s raining, you brave the walk from the parking lot to Publix because it feels like a sauna anyway.
When I’m walking in the rain after dusk (so 5:30 p.m.), I can hear my grandmother telling me I’m getting pneumonia.
I know we’re not in Norway or Chicago or all these overrated tundras. Now, I know this is as far up north as I’ll get (unless you run a newspaper somewhere else and want me to work for you after graduation).
Surviving winter last year was a spiritual journey. I learned my AC doubles down as a heater, and that it doesn’t matter if I don’t know the difference between dressing for 55 and 35 degrees — it’s OK to wear a snow coat when it’s below 60.
If you’re also sad and grumpy because it’s getting unbearably cold, the ultimate solution is listening to Hispanic music. Nearly half of it mentions the beach. It helps.
