When you live your whole life in once place, an entire 30 years in an area with four seasons, then you up and move several thousand miles to a coastal state where cliffs colide with ocean waves and fog eats up buildings and the wind almost never stops, it takes some getting used to.
So, I got used to it. I bought lots of thin clothes to layer on top of one another, so that when the afternoon came, and it the sun was blazing, I could remove a few for comfort and still be covered.
I had that shit down to a science. Tank top under long sleeved sheathy thing with another one of those on top plus a jacket stuffed into my purse. For later. For nightfall. When the cold comes back.
I no longer needed a heavy wool coat or giant cable knit sweaters with turtlenecks. Those weren't layery enough. They were too hot. They didn't work well for traveling the 15 miles to a different climate in the East Bay.
Of course, once I nailed dressing for San Francisco weather I moved to New York. Back to four seasons.
And on this November 1st in Manhattan it is straight-up cold. Not chilly. Cold. I can see my breath cold. I haven't seen my breath in years.
The crisp air, the frigid air, the smell of the season--all of it awesome. It pairs well with the gentlemen at Macy's who are putting up the enormous Christmas tree out front. It goes with ice skating rinks in Bryant Park. It is a wonderful partner for steaming cups of coffee.
Right now I am loving the weather in New York. The seasons give me a sense of structure, a sense of nostalgia. A way to remember building snow men with my sister on Rosehill Court until we couldn't stand it then went inside to melt down with hot chocolate and television.
The winter up here in Yankeetown is going to be brutal. No one will let me forget this hard and true fact. But I welcome the gusts of wind so strong they will knock you down and snow banks to high you can't see to cross the street.
It's something wild and new and wonderful.