Seasonal Bullshit Disorder
As the summer ends and I descend into my annual mild depression that results from having to retire my flip flops for the winter, my thoughts drift to a warmer, brighter place. A place where you can go to the beach all year. A place where clouds exist only in passing. A place where there are no seasons. You always hear people who lived in a place like New Jersey and then moved to a place where it’s sunny and warm all year complain that they “miss the seasons”. The rough translation to this goes something like “I miss it being 75 and sunny one day and then 30 and raining the next, but most of all, I miss Mother Nature freaking the fuck out and dumping 3 feet of snow on top of me, and then doing it again once it all melts”. People in New Jersey are never happy with the weather. When it’s the summer, they want the winter. When it’s the winter, they want the summer. In the heat of the summer, the Garden State’s denizens spew sugar-coated drivel about how they can’t wait for the leaves to change colors and a snowy Christmas. I always thought this mentality to be the result of some sort of acute dementia. The first day that the wind chill tacks a minus sign in front of the temperature, the very same people can’t wait to sweat. Right about now, your Facebook news feed is probably being lit up by scores of girls putting up happy face statuses about “hoodie weather”, but in another couple months, they’ll be longing for tanning oil and pina coladas. Once you get beyond the age bracket where snow cancels school for you, you have to be out of your mind to actually like the winter in a place like this. What is there to like about blistering cold weather and breaking your back shoveling snow? That’s right- NOTHING.
If you’re cheering the end of summer (even if you’re as big a benny-hater as I am) instead of mourning it, I think you’re a nutcase. Give me sun, give me sand, give me sweat. . .or give me death.