Autumn in New York. It sounds so romantic and whimsical. You picture carriage rides through Central Park, proper ladies in the latest Burberry walking their charming little dogs with rhinestone collars through the colorful leaves, hot apple cider from the farmer’s market. Best of all, humans smell less like body odor and sweat on the subways…and the stench of garbage slightly subsides.
Which is nice and all, but a bit hard to appreciate when your fingers are numb from cold, your nose is running, and your legs are chapped from new boots and socks that won’t stay at your knee. Autumn in the sunshine isn’t so bad, but check the weather report in Manhattan today. 51 degrees for a high, and 100% rain. Soggy leaves are much less appealing than crinkly, crispy leaves you go out of your way to step on. What’s worse? Check the weather in LA… 89 degrees, 0% rain. I hate you all, and so does my head cold.
I admit, fall is my favorite and I love preparing for the holidays and watching New York transform into a winter wonderland with skating rinks, a Christmas tree that fits in with our skyscrapers, and tourists (locals know taxes are lower in NJ) shopping on 5th Avenue.
But I hate being cold. I’m cold normally. My hands and feet could keep ice frozen all year long, but when the temperature dips below 60, I’m a wretched cranky mess. I shiver, bundle, wear mittens at work, and sleep in full sweatsuits. The problem is that I dislike turning on the heat, because then I can’t breathe right. My eyes and skin dry out, and I feel like I’m suffocating. I have to choose between Sahara Desert and North Pole, and I can’t decide which, because either way I’m whining. Can’t I meet halfway… in LA?
“Dreamers with empty (cold) hands, they sigh for exotic lands…”