I guess I really am a winter person.
The last few weeks of heat have weighed on me. Hot weather and me just don’t mix. I found it hard to exercise, to sleep, to even want to eat. Nothing seemed appealing. I just felt like a sloth inching along through my day with no motivation to do much else than sit on the couch.
Maybe it has to do with how I respond to heat. I’m a sweater. If it’s over 60 degrees, and I exert myself in the slightest, the sweat starts rolling off of me. I can’t possibly run during the summer months, because it’s just too gross.
I look at July and August as months to be tolerated, with September as the light at the end of the tunnel.
And this particular summer has brought the worst possible mix of excessive heat mixed with smoke from all the fires. Our mountain paradise no longer seemed so magical.
But last Thursday, my husband said there could be snow the following Tuesday, I perked right up.
White fluffy flakes falling out of the sky and cold nippy weather that would entail putting on a jacket. Suddenly I felt like a new woman.
But I didn’t want to get my hopes up too much. We’ve lived here long enough to see many a snowstorm vanish. After all, it’s the day after Labor Day, what were the chances? It would be our earliest snowfall we’d seen in the ten years we’d lived in Nederland.
But the forecast kept saying cold and snow. On Monday night, I watched the thermometer dip down into the forties before retiring to bed. I was so excited over the prospect of snow that I couldn’t sleep. It reminded me of being a kid on Christmas eve. Filled with anticipation over the joy I would feel.
Sure enough, this morning I woke up, opened the blinds and the ground was covered in white. Though we didn’t get the foot of snow I had hoped for, I couldn’t be happier. Pulling out my snow boots, looking for hats and gloves, I felt like myself again.
Even the pandemic doesn’t feel so bad now.