It's cold here. I know, lows in the 20s and highs in the 40s doesn't sound cold to those of you stuck in the Northeast, Midwest, or Northwest. But relative to my now-too-thin-southern-style blood, it's freeeezing.
When did I turn into a whimp? I can't pinpoint it. It happened when I wasn't looking.
I think it was sometime during the summer, maybe around June of my 9th year in Atlanta. Swimming and sun were the order of the summer, and suddenly for the first time in my life I didn't get hot in 80-degree weather. It felt pleasant. Warm. Nice. Soothing. Sometimes even chilly.
Growing up in Western New York, making human chains with neighborhood kids so we'd get to first grade without any of us falling into a seven-foot snowbank, left undiscovered until May, I liked the cold, the snow, the layers of clothing, the three pairs of gloves so one dry pair was always waiting, the standing on the heat duct itching the hives on my legs which plagued me after a morning of sledding.
But no more. I've turned Southern. It's just a fact. The heat's been on 75 all winter and I still can't get under enough covers. I'm dreaming of a retirement villa in Florida. Or better yet, a lotto win and a year-long reservation here, with home schooling in the mornings and an endless supply of nannys and friends and water and sun and fun for Jenna.
You want to go too. I know you want to go. So who's buying the lotto ticket this week?
Last one into the pool is a rotten egg!
