It’s that time.
That time of the summer where much of the newness of the season has worn off, the mere presence of warm weather no longer enough to make one giddy. Lemonade doesn’t taste quite as sweet as it did two months ago, the call of the ice cream man not as melodic, and the fun of grilling is eclipsed by how much of a pain in the balls it is to haul the fucking thing out and clean it. Especially in some of the areas where suffocating heat has been far too present and rain far too rare, (I’m looking at you St Louis, you 100+ degree asshole,) summer is starting to wear out its welcome. And while I’m still thoroughly enjoying the season, what with plenty of geocaching left to be done (yay wandering around in the woods!) and the track finally open (yay gambling and beer!) I’m almost starting to yearn for other seasons, ones that aren’t accompanied by a river of sweat running down the crack of my ass.
Here are 10 things I miss about winter:
What can I say? I miss skiing. I miss everything about it.
Not having to worry that wearing the wrong shirt outside will give me ridiculous tan lines.
Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not a girl who actively tans. For one, I only developed the ability to do something besides burn and peel last year, so it’s not something I’m used to thinking about. And while I will admit that having a little color does makes my bruises and cellulite less noticeable, I just don’t care a ton about the shade of my skin. But I am a girl who loves being outside, and between running, hiking, geocaching, biking, and going to the track, I spend a lot of time in the sunshine. One day near the end of June I looked down and suddenly realized that after a month of running around outdoors in tshirts I had the most ridiculous farmer’s tan I’d ever seen. Not sexy.
Snuggling in bed with heaps of thick blankets.
Oh, yeah. After a day of skiing, when I’m cold to my very bones, nothing feels better than diving under our thick winter duvet while Kyle stacks quilt after quilt on top. Feeling the warmth and the weight of the blankets on top of me…oh, there’s nothing better. Bring me a cup of hot milk and honey and I’m in fuzzy heaven!
Not having to worry that when I stand up after sitting on a plastic or fake-leather chair there will be sweaty splotches left from my sweaty legs.
You know what I’m talking about. You’re at the salon and that cape has been draped over you for an hour-and-a-half and turned into a personal sauna. You’re sitting there and you can feel your thighs squish in their own sweat every time you shift in the chair. The stylist finally removes your cape and while you’re grateful for the cool air, you’re dreading what you’ll see when you stand up. You try to scoot your ass over the seat in the hopes that your shorts will wipe them up as you stand up…but there they are. Those twin oval sweat pools left by your legs. And even though you know that you can’t be the only woman to sweat in the chair (right?) and it has to be normal (right?) you still feel like the grossest being that ever crawled out of a swamp.
Letting my legs go unshaven for two weeks because work has been crazy and I’m too tired to bother with shaving them and no one but Kyle can see them so who gives a shit?
Granted, I realize that I’m pretty lucky when it comes to the leg hair department. My leg hair is blonde and fairly fine, so I have a little more leeway when it comes to shaving. But we all know that prickly don’t fly in the summer months of shorts and dresses, which makes bi-weekly shaving a must. Which is annoying when I’m in the middle of a week of 12-hour days and exhausted and frankly, I don’t give a shit about the smoothness of my legs. Until I meet friends for drinks and suddenly realize that my legs are so hairy that a family of elves have been living in my leg-forest for a week. Shit.
How much better hot coffee tastes.
It’s not even just the taste. It’s getting to wrap my hands around the warm cup and feel the hot liquid slide down my throat and into my belly. Sure, I still drink coffee in the summer for it’s super caffeine powers, but it doesn’t warm my soul like it does in the winter.
Not hearing Kyle whine because it’s hot and/or humid outside.
Six months ago, when I was wrapped up in a nest of blankets and losing feeling in my fingers and begging Kyle to let me turn the heat up higher than 65 degrees, he used to love to launch into his speech about how heat is expensive and we’re trying to save money so we can do the things we love, so just put on (another) sweater. But now that it’s warm out, suddenly money is of no issue. If it’s above 70 degrees, the house is closed and the a/c is blasting. And god forbid there’s even the tiniest bit of moisture in the air; even if it’s actually cooler outside, if there’s any humidity he wants the a/c on full blast. I’ve been told that this inability to tolerate being hot is not uncommon among the menfolk, but that makes it no less annoying.
The excitement that builds in my chest when snow starts to fall.
Even though a fresh snowfall no longer holds the promise of a snow day (most of the time,) I still can’t help but get excited about a good snow. It’s the prospect of all that new powder on the mountain, but it’s also the magic of new snow. It’s so fragile and beautiful and holds so much promise.
Not having to make sure my toenails are painted because unpainted they’re disgusting.
Look, I’m never going to have pretty feet. They’re calloused and blistered and scarred and my left big toenail is still black and blue from smashing it two months ago. I realize this, and have made peace with it. And I get that no one else wants to look at my nasty-ass feet, but I refuse to spend all summer wearing close-toed shoes just because my toes are gross. So I compromise. I paint my toenails dark colors, keep the worst of the blisters covered with band-aids, and hope that my stunning personality keeps the focus away from my hooves. And this (mostly) works. Except that this means that I am required (by law, probably) to keep my toenails painted, a task which I do not enjoy. It takes fooooooreeeever, and I can’t do anything while I’m waiting for them to dry. And inevitably I try to get up and do stuff before they’re fully dry, and inevitably I smudge them, which means now I have to fix them which means I have to wait even longer for them to dry. All because people find my feet gross to look at. Well, all I have to say is that you assholes better appreciate it.
Corduroys and sweaters.
What can I say, I love feeling fuzzy. And nothing feels fuzzier than corduroys and sweaters. They’re like sweatpants and a hoodie, except no one judges you for wearing them in public. Besides, I’ve never had a day when I woke up feeling too fat for corduroys and a sweater. They are perfect.