We are a week into December and it hasn't really been that cold yet. Sure, we had that one snow storm Halloween weekend, but other than that, it has been very mild. Every year, I pretend winter won't happen. I was raised without it. I mean, we had our own version of winter. You know, when you bust out your sweater for a couple weeks when the temperatures drop all the way down to highs in the mid to upper 50s. Laugh all you want, people-who-grew-up-with-legitimate-cold-weather, I don't care. I have acclimated to this weather.
This week, though, this whole impending winter has been making itself known. Not in that it's been cold, but the trees have almost all lost their leaves. I found myself not even being sad about it. My first year here, I kind of felt bad that all of the trees were naked. They seemed sad. But naked trees means that snow should come soon enough, and I love the snow! That's when it hit me that I have grown to completely love seasons. Like, I love seasons to the point where I'm not sure I could be without them. Now, that's not to say I don't love that it's warm in Florida in the winter. I love being able to go home and drink slushy-umbrella'd drinks in the pool while waiting for everyone to show up for Christmas Eve dinner. I just think I enjoy it a little bit more knowing that a few days after that, I fly back to the cold, the winter, and the snow.
I could probably go on and on about how I like wearing my coats and scarves and how it all makes me feel like a more legitimate female (because I tend to actually look more like a normal girl in the winter time), but I will spare you those details. Or just summarize it all in the previous, possible run-on, sentence.