It is so ironic. I live in New England. It’s a place that it sort of renown for it’s winters. Yet, despite the visual appeal and all the fun winter sports and all of that, I friggin’ hate the cold. I hate it with a burning passion. Burning… irony, eh?
As the saying goes, I live in a place where the air hurts my face. Why do I live in a place where the air hurts my face? The reason is because I’ve always lived here and everyone I know and care about lives here and all of the things that are important to me are here.
I never considered moving away, but our honeymoon changed that. 15 years ago this week we got married. We started our honeymoon in Vermont, then went to Washington, DC for a few days, then went to heaven. Shangri-La. The promised land. The place I want to go back to and never leave. San Diego, CA. Goodness gracious me, was it beautiful there. I loved everything about it. And the best part? It’s not cold there in the winter. Oh, the bliss.
I hate cold, yet I live in a place where the winter starts in September and doesn’t end until May. Oh, the painful, brutal irony. Save me from it, please.
Inside the Red Head's Head 