California Dreamin'

Unless you're an avid skier, January on the East Coast is a drag. Even then, odds are good that snow conditions are better out west. Eastern slopes tend to get icy, and icy slopes lead to accidents and injuries. Sure, January back east can be idyllic for a day or two following a snow--and everyone loves a mug of hot chocolate by the fireplace every now and again--but the beauty inevitably fades back into perpetual gray--an endless procession of days passed indoors waiting for any sign of spring. The farther north you go, the worse it gets. The longer the procession. Some people love winter. I am not one of those people. 

As a January baby and mild narcissist, I almost always enjoy the festivities surrounding my birthday. This year was no exception. I took matters into my own hands and engineered a blowout in Manhattan. As someone with fairly acute seasonal affective disorder, I loath almost everything else about my birth month. The only thing worse might be February.

My relationship with January changed for the better when I moved to California. Let's just say the decision to relocate to the Central Coast was not arbitrary. In Santa Cruz, January brought the potential for legitimate warmth. Sure it might rain from time to time, but I also might be able to wear shorts while frolicking with the banana slugs amongst the redwoods. Those are odds I'm willing to take.

Then I moved to Syracuse, NY. Talk about a shock to the system. Following love is always worth the risk. Wintering in Syracuse, less so. You do it because you have to do it.

When you're outside, basking in the sun and staring at the ocean, it's easy to stay anchored in the present. When you're stuck inside staring at the clock, you're left with little choice but to ruminate on the future. From here the future looks bleak. Add thirty degrees, a few early blooms, and the ebbing of this interminable pandemic and it's bound to look better. For now though, back to white-knuckling it.