Preview: Winter '05

Winter in Georgia is a lot like a bad visit to the OB/GYN. You go, knowing that it is slightly unnerving to bare your private parts to a professional. I mean, he sees hundreds upon thousands of female genitalia during his career. However, you are strengthened because you are so much cooler than that. It's no big deal. I can spread my legs and welcome unpleasantries with the best of them, right? I was married, you know.

But you go, and in that cold ass examination room you undress. You put on that stupid gown with the light blue chevrons on it, and you notice that the chillbumps on your thighs are making your unshaved legs look hairy. (I meant to take a pic of my legs yesterday. I hadn't shaved them in a month, and I was exceedingly proud of how you couldn't tell.) Slowly your proud, confident surface is being undermined. The murmur of concerned sounding voices in the hallway outside send your mind into shockwaves of anxiety. You know that your Doctor is friendly, and married, and has a daughter your age. You take a couple of deep breaths, and know it will soon be over.

But it gets worse. And you don't really know it until you hear a couple of concerned "Oooohhhs" and "Uhhhhs" coming from the head between your legs. You can barely see his forehead...but you notice that the bald crescent that he doesn't combover is obviously loofahed or something. It doesn't shine. Yay for an OB/GYN with good hygienics.

Winter in Georgia is like that, I'm convinced. You keep telling yourself that it isn't that bad, quit being such a baby. Plenty of people in the Northeast would kill to live here in this climate. Not much snow, and temps between 30-50 on average.

But it sure isn't winter in California. Even when I lived near San Francisco, the cold wet drizzle had a victorian romanticism to it. It seemed appropriate. And not at all harsh. Women there had good skin and never looked weathered. Hair was kempt, and frizz was unheard of. Only the telltale flushed cheeks would let you know that it was wintertime.

Here, winter in many ways evokes a stillness that is disconcerting. You wait to hear the sound of birds in the trees, and you forever wait. The fallen leaves lay in piles and look damp and uncomfortable. The biting wind streaks over the brown grasses in fields, and makes you feel like a farmer in the Depression.

I knew I was in full winter disgust when I spent three hours online today, looking at thatched huts on beaches with turquoise water. I dreamed of diving, deeper and deeper, and the warm temperatures near the equator don't dissipate as you sink beneath the surface. My hair is bleached from salt and sun, and sand has penetrated my crevices that have no relief from the powerful showerhead. My pedicure is destroyed and my legs are so dark I can't even tell...they still appear cream colored in the sunshine.
I bake in the sun, and feel my energy wane. But underneath, you know you are being recharged. Your soul is being warmed like a terracotta tile.

Send me to warm temperatures. I'm done already, and we aren't even through November.




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