Winter in Southern California is like those perfect cakes you see in a bakery window. One never expects to eat one, much less to be able to make one, but there it is, nonetheless. That anything that perfect could be executed by human hands seems practically impossible.
I used to long for white Christmases as a kid, but I’m way past that now. I hate being cold. Ask C about the time our gas got shut off in January when I was pregnant and we had no hot water or heat for three days. He was so scared of me that I came home to two space heaters and a blanket set up near my spot on the couch.
I’ve never wanted to be cold a single second since that weekend. I take baths that other people would consider scalding. When I was young (and dumb), my favorite place to be was in a tanning bed. My favorite feeling in summer is exiting an air conditioned place and feeling the summer sun practically slap my skin with its dry heat.
I’m like Olaf, oblivious to how detrimental heat can be.
Today it was 76 degrees. I am still, as I mentioned, sick. But I am a mom and life must go on, so V and I went to Target, Whole Foods and the park. By the time we got to the park, I was running on fumes. Until I sat in the sand and felt the sun on my face. V, either obvious or sensing that I needed a minute, played quietly with a discarded yellow shovel and let me just rest.
Seventy-six degrees in the middle of December? That is perfection.