When I was sixteen, I saw California for the first time. I remember being blown away by the mountains, the climate, the ocean. After a week in la-la-land, I was convinced that someday it would be my home; that I would hightail it out of flat, frigid Illinois as soon as I was able. California had palm trees, movie stars, sandy beaches. In my teenage eyes, it was paradise. And I was determined I would one day take up residence.
Decades later, I'm still in the state of my birth and I can't explain why.
Don't get me wrong. Chicago is a great town - beautiful skyline, cultural opportunities up the wazoo and, despite Jon Stewart's tirade to the contrary, the best pizza this side of Naples. I love it. . .from April through October. After that, it slides down to Number 182 on my list of places in which I actually want to live, falling somewhere in between India and Iraq.
Today, the schools are closed for the third time this month, not for a snow day (although there's a ton of that on the ground) but for sub-zero temperatures. I believe the high will top out at -4 and the low will be a fit-for-polar-bears only -18. And like a bear, all I want to do is hibernate. I put on my three sweaters and long underwear (even if I do not intend to venture out, it's the only think that keeps me warm) and spend as much time as I can huddled under a down comforter, pulling my hands out from under the covers only to change the channel on the remote or sip my hot chocolate.
This is no way to live - except for the hot chocolate.
After being lucky enough to have spent a week in Mexico, I know January doesn't have to look like this. There are places in this world whose residents never have to dig their way out of a two foot snow drift. I want to live in one of them. There are people in this world who get to wear shorts and walk on the beach almost every day of the year. I want to be one of them (except for the shorts thing - with my varicose veins, I should make it capris). There are better things to do than trying to figure out a way to get feeling back in my fingertips after walking to the mailbox. And I want to do them.
I know my California dream is dead - I refuse to spend $650,000 for a two bedroom bungalow that needs some TLC anyway. I know moving west was a foolish, young girl's dream. But this foolish, old girl still dreams. She dreams of escape - from December 26 until somewhere around April 1.
Spring, Summer, Fall. Escape. Those are four seasons I think I can live with.
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