I hate the looming winter.
I don’t merely hate the looming winter. I loathe the looming winter, in the same way I once loathed my fifth grade teacher. I hate having to wear pants and a winter jacket and gloves. I hate walking my dog in the morning, when the wind is howling and it’s 22 degrees. I hate shoveling my driveway, I hate scraping the ice off my car windows, I hate turning the heat up and watching imaginary dollar bills float out through the chimney. I hate waking up and feeling my bones creak. I hate the feel of a cold blanket. I hate walking on a freezing floor. I hate how my hands turn dry and the skin starts to crack. I hate the darkness. I love the Christmas season—but I absolutely hate the aftermath. No one in a good mood. Nothing to look forward to. No decent approaching holidays. No sunny, 60-degree mornings. Just cold, bitter awfulness.
I desperately want to move to California. I want to sit on the Manhattan Beach boardwalk on a 72-degree January day and Skype with my freezing friends. I want to walk in the sand and bathe in the ocean and leave all my shovels far, far, far, far, far, far, far behind.
I’m 41, and I can no longer take it.