The 7th Circle of Hell

So this heat and humidity that New Yorkers spend their winter months dreaming about?  I'm over it.  


Actually, I was over it before it even started.  I've never been one of those girls yearning for tropical beaches (not that I'd turn down a trip to Hawaii or a weekend in Cabo, but I'd rather be on an Alaskan cruise ship than one that's heading to Jamaica, mon).  I grew up in California's San Joaquin Valley, where summer begins in April and ends in December, with temperatures of 100+ degrees frequently making our backyard pool too hot to swim in.  (I know, right?)   When it was 114 degrees, jumping into a pool the temperature of a warm bathtub was not the cool, refreshing rush you might think.  (Not that we didn't do it anyway, since my mother was a freaking air conditioner Nazi.  It could be 120 degrees in our house, we'd be literally melting onto the hardwood floor, and she'd say, "Turn on a fan."  Okay, newsflash, MOM:  All the fan does is blow the same 120 degree air at you.  It's not a magical fan, with mad refrigeration skills.  It's just a freaking FAN.)  


So yeah, as much as I adored being tanned, I also hated the heat.  


When my ex husband got out of the Marine Corps, we moved way up the coast of California into Del Norte county.  Between the ocean, the mountains, and the redwoods, I honestly believe there isn't a more beautiful place on this earth.  One of the perks of living there, other than the view, was clean air.  The downside?  The weather sucks.  I went from valley heat to north coast rain, wind, more rain, more wind, (and the occasional tsunami, just to keep us on our toes).  I loved it, I hated it... You know how it goes.  I loved the weather when I wasn't out in it.  I hated it when it was sunny but the wind was blowing so hard that you couldn't go outside.  I looked forward to that one day a year when it was 70 degrees.  A beautiful sunny day was a treat, kind of like a reward for surviving all the shitty weather that the other 364 days brought forth.  


Living on the coast changes your perspective as to what a "warm day" actually consists of:  A warm day in most places is in the 70s and 80s, with a hot day being in the 90s to 100s.  Right?  On the north coast, a warm day is any day without rain, when the sun is actually shining.  A HOT day is any day that the sun is shining and there's no wind.  So if it was 65 degrees outside, sunny, and not windy, Northern Californians were stripping off their clothes like a 2 dollah hooker and heading to the beach or river (depending on whether you wanted to turn right or left off of the 101).  


When we first arrived here in New York, it was rainy and yucky.  I felt right at home.  Then BOOM!!!  The damn heat laid the smack down, and while native New Yorkers were dancing and cheering in the streets because the snow had thawed, the lonely girl from northern California was planted in her apartment in front of a fan bitching up a storm because, um, hello?  It's a thousand degrees out there, people, with a bazillion percent humidity.  This isn't pleasant.  Not being a huge fan of sweating, I'm not having a good time.  


People keep telling me, "Oh, just wait until it's 40 below and there's 15 feet of snow outside.  You'll wish for this weather."  


I'm all, "I don't think so."  

I can come in out of the cold, y'all.  I can turn on my heater, wrap myself in a blanket, drink a hot cuppa coffee and warm my chilly ass up.  Right now?  When I come in from the heat and humidity, I'm just walking into MORE heat and humidity.  I can crank up the AC and turn on a fan, but it's still flippin' hot.  There are only so many clothes I'm willing to take off and I refuse to sit on my couch naked.  (Because, you know... ewwww.)


You think I'm a-scared of winter?  


BRING IT.