I hate cold weather. There, I said it. Admitting it is supposed to be the first step, right? I don’t feel any better typing that sentence. What I do feel is cold. My dislike for the mornings has increased due to the lowering temperature of the season. I dread the initial chill that I get when Death Cab for Cutie’s “Brother’s on a Hotel Bed” fills the room and wakes me up from my eternal slumber. My definition of “eternal slumber” has changed from uninterrupted sleep into the few precious hours I have to dream that aren’t interrupted by the cats, work, or the occasional movements from my sister or her boyfriend getting ready for their respective days.
As soon as I hear the soft tones of the alarm it triggers the cats into a frenzy of pawing at the door, and meowing as loud and frequently as possible. To them, it’s a blessing from the heavens that someone is in the house to bestow upon them blessings of canned goodness. To me, I had the misfortune of being the first person to wake up that day. As soon as I make any movement to calm the excited cats at my doorway, that unfamiliar cold hits the side of my face. I am immediately cranky. It’s October in Atlanta and my poorly insulated room makes sure that it’s colder in the house than it is outside.
This is what I get for being born in South Florida. The Sunshine State that has 11 months of summer and then in December, has a sudden identity crisis, does a nose dive into 2 weeks of winter and levels back out into summer again in January. Cold by South Florida’s definition is around 50 degrees. This is when the bleached blonde trophy wives are stirred into a frenzy, finally having a reason to validate the July purchase of their 250$ UGG boots. Parkas, boots, and windbreakers are taken out of the back of the closet and worn proudly amongst the palm trees and salty sea air. I hated those two weeks with a passion. I hated wearing the long sleeved shirts that irritated my dry arms and my attitude. Now I have to deal with it 4 months out of the year.
“You think this is cold? Just wait until December.” my sister Megan says with hints of superiority in her voice. She moved up to Atlanta about 2 years ago, when Atlanta had one of the worst winters in the last twenty years. It was catastrophic to the people in the city. Supermarkets were sold out of water, bread and fresh fruit. The newscasters said that the weather had shutdown downtown Atlanta and its multiple surrounding cities for a week. “It was about 6 inches or snow. You should see the pictures of my car, it was covered in snow.” Megan said as she reached over to her cat and scratched it behind the ears. “We only had one Zamboni for the entire city. People just didn’t know what to do.” That winter had made her into the cold bearing woman that she is today. She laughs when I put on a sweater when it’s 70 out. Her tip for beating the cold mornings? “Wear socks, all the time.”
So now, I sit at the edge of the bed putting on the pink socks that I purchased last week trying to avoid accidently kicking the cats as they swarm around the edge of my bed, hoping that I will relieve them from their hunger. I reach for the door handle to give myself room to get out. It’s cold. I hate the cold.