A Desperate Letter To Winter

Dear Winter Weather, WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU.


This is getting ridiculous. Day-in and day-out, I wake up, roll over, briefly panic as to my phone's whereabouts, find it under my pillow like a dollar from the tooth fairy, and pull up the weather app hoping that what I saw yesterday has changed drastically overnight. Alas, it never has.

I'm tired of this shit. I'm fed up that it's midFUCKINGdecember and close to 70°. Yes, I am well-aware that my choice to be from and remain in Texas doesn't help my case, and complaining about such things might be construed as "ignorant" by some, but nevertheless. NeverthedamnLESS - I'm upset.

Why? Because. Winter is supposed to be cold. No matter where you live, no matter what your upbringing was, traditionally and universally, Winter is supposed to be the coldest season of the year. Winter means snow, rosy cheeks, freezing cold noses, warm layers, fuzzy blankets, and burn-your-mouth hot drinks. I have crockpot recipes to try, mulled mead to make, and so many #basic festive evenings in to enjoy watching "Elf," "Love Actually," and "Bridget Jones." I beg you to answer how I'm supposed to do any of that when it's muggy as hell outside, my A/C is still on, and my lower breasts still produce a layer of thin sweat once a day from the aforementioned mugginess (and not just my natural sweaty disposition)?

I experienced four years of real winter bliss while getting drunk and sometimes studying at the University of Kansas. Having gone to school in the middle of the USA - no, really. Lawrence, KS is the literal middle of the country - I had a taste: a taste of blizzard (not Dairy Queen's), a taste of learning how to artfully drive on miles-long patches of ice, a taste of weather so cold, no amount of layers can protect you from its nipples-cutting-glass reality. Every winter, on any given time of day, you could see students willingly plopping down on their asses to finish their journey back home by sliding down the many hills leading up to campus. It was the type of weather that forced you to just give up and succumb -- to literally sit on your butt and gently slide your way home without a second thought. And I loved it.

It's depressing, it really is. I understand that my expectations for wintertime weather should be significantly lowered due to my place of residence, I get that. But I'm not asking for a WHITE Chirstmas. I'm not even asking for a frigidly COLD Christmas. All I'm asking for is a normal Christmas - one that enables me to don a winter sweater with a winter scarf and a winter jacket. To be able to gaily enjoy a bowl of Pinterest-inspired, homemade, white chicken chili, knowing it's frosty outside and that eating this soup is appropriate.

Winter acting as it should isn't much to ask when you're forced to annually suffer through a journey up Satan's asshole from April-September. 

So, Santa, if you hear me (which, I know you don't and never will. I learned this at the ripe age of six. That is, unless my dad has a mentally deranged twin who obsessively sneaks into my parent's house every Christmas Eve...), give me this. Just this one thing. I don't even care about getting a Vizio sound bar for my TV so I can hear Rory and Lorelei's quippy convos better. And I can do without a second pair of my favorite super stretchy legging jeans from GAP. I would give all this and more to be cold. Really cold. The kind of cold that makes you stop and appreciate your warm bed in the mornings - that smells like cold and makes you feel like anything magical and romantic is possible.

Bah Humbug, but also maybe Merry Christmas?