It’s seventy degrees outside now, up from where it dropped last night, possibly the last chilly hurrah before summer latches on to us for good. I had the windows open last night despite the chill–or perhaps because of it. It’s like free air conditioning, after all.
I love cold weather. Love it for the way it makes me feel and the things of which it reminds me. I’ve never been much for the heat. In fact, I wilt in humidity. Cue an image of salad greens and ovens or some such.
Cold weather means cozy sweatshirts and pajama pants. It means blankets, curled up on the couch with movies and hot chocolate, holding coffee mugs with both hands in order to warm them up, soups and stews, sitting outside on the porch in a beam of sunlight to warm up.
Cold weather means fall, when the temperature drops and the leaves begin to turn orange and yellow, and it means cold, wet, rainy, and overcast days, where the leaves and water and dirt mix into a gritty grime that covers sidewalks, crunches under my shoes, and reminds me just how nice it is to stay inside. On the tail of the first fall weather means October isn’t far away, and that Halloween–my favorite holiday–will be here soon, so it’s time to get a costume ready.
The cold also reminds me of books and stories. Maybe it’s because I write stories, and so many things remind me so, but maybe it’s also because the cold weather keeps us inside, glued to a book or Harry Potter DVDs, and encourages us to retreat deeper into our imaginations to defeat or escape the grey outside.
I’m doing my best to enjoy the cool while it lasts. Summer will be long and warm, a relentless mix of humidity and misery that won’t let up for months. But for now, the windows are open, there’s a chill on the breeze, goosebumps on my skin; and it is amazing.