Well, the weather tried to get nice. But stepping outside in today’s 40-degree drizzle shows that it tragically failed.
This past weekend was a delightful 80-ish degrees. I
got really lost went on a long road ride with some friends, got a handsome sunburn on my arms and legs, threw open my apartment windows* to let in some much needed fresh air, and ate dinner, in the form of a bottle of wine, outside. For a brief 48 hours, I made up with North Carolina.
We’re sleeping in separate bedrooms, again. Which all but confirms why we really must call it quits and separate for good: For five months, I hate this state’s guts.** I hate its deciduous trees, I hate the cold, I hate being mocked with brief reminders of how humane warm weather is, and I hate how city planners don’t know what bike lanes are. I can’t tell you how many close calls I’ve had on my 1.5 mile bike commute to work every day.
I’m quite convinced it’s impossible for a Californian to adapt to seasons and deciduous trees. Don’t laugh, but here’s my latest coping mechanism: It involves visualization, wine, and good music. I come home, turn off the lights, turn up my reggae/surfer/Jack Johnson-esque music, and lay on my couch with a glass of wine. I run through scenes in my mind: my favorite rides in SLO, oak trees, the Napa hills, and any other feel-good scenes from California that happen to flash through.
Then I feel sorry for everyone who lives here because they don’t know any better.
I know this all sounds bizarre and/or straight-up pitiful, but it’s kind of working.
*For some reason, while writing that, I pictured Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music.
** I know that this is yet another bitter post. Truly sorry. Come mid-April, or so, you won't want to force feed me a bottle of Prozac after reading my blog.