Admit it. Every year around the time that the leaves turn yellow and humidity’s strangle finally starts to loosen, you find yourself giddy with anticipation for the pumpkin spice lattes, the rosy cheeks and noses, all the amazing clothing items you will layer over other clothing items. You’re overcome with romance at the thought of snuggling up by the fire, kissing someone in the snow or just that feeling you get shopping for a new pair of boots. You skip joyously on those one or two days where all you need to stay warm is a denim jacket, thinking about how merry the holiday times are going to be this year. “Oh happy day! Santa is coming and he’s bringing snow!” you scream prematurely into the October air like an overzealous child in denial.

And then it happens. Without skipping a beat, the most bleak and resilient layer of stratus mother nature herself has ever begotten (it gets worse every year, I’m sure of it) collapses all your hopes and dreams, teetering instead between snow-less arctic temperatures and weather that can only be described as “fucking alright.” Thanksgiving rolls around, you gain the first five of that ten pounds you will undoubtedly accrue before New Year’s, and before you know it…the holidays are over. You had one pumpkin spice latte before you realized it was 400 calories and you burned off all your taste-buds on what you swear was not non-fat milk. You can barely afford your heating bill, let alone even dream of a working fireplace (pre-war doesn’t mean the same thing real estate-wise outside of Upper Manhattan). It’s mid-January. The last person who snuggled up to you was your cat, and that was only because your ten day New Year’s hangover turned into the full-fledged flu and the fever was keeping him warm. And even on the brightest, sunniest fluke of a 60 degree day you can’t help but know in your heart of hearts that the proverbial groundhog is giving you the proverbial finger, and there will be an ice storm in March.

So why do I do it? Why do I continue to insist that there exists a “winter wonderland” beyond Tumblr jpegs of some Norwegian girl in a poncho? I suppose it can be done. I remember being 8 and praying to god (shows what I knew) for a snow day so I could bask in the carpeted, centrally heated palace that was my suburban home. And with the right motivation and a good savings account I may have been able to spread some of those conveniences into my early twenties. But with my unfortunate inability to save a dime and what appears to be a solar-powered immune system, all this cloud cover makes me want to melt Klonopin in my cocoa.

That being said, my visit from the plague over the last couple of weeks left me with a lot of down time to handle some personal things that really matter. For example, I spent a few days contemplating my relationship with Gossip Girl’s Dan Humphrey and decided that while I do like his haircut, he is too pretentious for me. I attached studs to the back pockets of my jeans, cleaned out my computer and updated my flickr account. Oh, and I downloaded some music to help take the edge off that Seasonal Affective Self-Loathing. Enjoy dancing to this track by Newtimers. Now that I’m on antibiotics and pretending it’s April, I’ll be dancing with you.

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One thought on “No Actually, Winter Sucks

  1. i completely enjoy reading your blog. its humorous and right on time. keep that shit up yo, i’m not trying to address several pressing personal matters until after the pool’s are open. thus, i’d rather live vicariously through you and forget about my world for a few more months.

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