15 degrees of acclimation

I am quite convinced that Western Colorado has produced a textbook autumn.  No freak September snows.  No Saturday that’s 75 degrees, blue skies, chirping of birds blended with the distant hum of a lawnmower only to give way to a Sunday that’s 28 degrees, hiding under 3 inches of snow and leaves, effectively stealing Autumn in one belligerent swoop.  Not this year.  Last winter’s above average snowfall coupled with this season’s ever-so gradually falling temperatures has allowed the trees to change colors with unforced ease, much to the exultation of those that find pleasure in watching terminal leaves make their transition to compost.

But when I think about it, maybe this year’s silky smooth transition into winter is not so textbook.  I grow weary of the oft-used “if you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes” expression that many a Coloradoan employs to distinguish their state from others’ (by the way, just about every other state claims copyright to the aforementioned expression), but it suggests that the transition from shorts and sandals to boots and gloves within the passing of a day is not such an unusual event.  And it’s not.  When I come to think of it, this autumn has been very unusual.  But let us not equate unusual with undesirable.

For some really odd reason, I just can’t wait for winter to come.  I want to see snow.  I want to shovel snow.  I want to scrape snow and ice from my windshield.  I want relive a childhood obsession where I would escape to the back of the house, turn on the back porch light, peer out the window and see if I can spot snow flakes falling before the light’s gaze.  I love the cold.  At least, in theory.  As much as I am convinced that Winter is still my favorite season, I had a very rude awakening this morning.  I was given the rare opportunity to house sit this week.  It is a home several miles south of Montrose, still in the valley, but it must be at least 10 degrees colder than in town.  My vast duties include feeding the dogs and the cats.  After my bowl of granola and my glass of o.j. were consumed (by me, not the animals), i slipped on my shoes with the simple intention of filling up the dogs’ food and water bowls outside next to the woodshop.  I felt that such a task hardly warranted a jacket.  After all, it’s only October 23.  After about three minutes of trying to break the solid ice out of the dogs’ water bowl, I said to myself, “this is ridiculous.  I hate winter.  I hate the cold.  I want to move to Costa Rica.”  And I went back inside.  I glanced at the thermometer.  15 degrees.  What a difference five months and 6,000 miles make.

I am exercising a lot of courage here admitting that I said that.  Not because there is necessarily anything wrong with Costa Rica, but because it was a) a moment of weakness on my part.  A moment that I could easily tuck away and pretend that it never happened instead of admitting it on my blog and b) rather humorous that I would ever say such a thing.  I have grown up in Colorado.  I know cold weather.  And I have the continued audacity to claim that winter is in fact my favorite season.  So I ask you all to please forgive my rare gaffe.  I do love winter.  I do love the cold.  I just love it when I’m wearing a warm coat.

And maybe some long underwear.