This afternoon, when my husband asked me to get my behind in gear and write a post, I decided to write about the implications for Mormon religious thought of the fact that behavior-determining mental illnesses have a biological basis. Then RT and I went out to purchase a Christmas tree, and I got cold. I got really, really cold. It was 10 degrees Fahrenheit outside. My lips went numb.
I’m now so busy thinking about the horrible, awful, dark, cold winter that’s begun here in Chicago that I can’t possibly write what I originally intended. I’m too busy remembering the seven years I spent bugging RT about the lack of snow in our Decembers.
I wanted to live someplace that had snow for Christmas. I agreed that the Bay Area’s Mediterranean climate is nice, but I insisted that it ruined the holidays. I said that while I like the Caribbean, no place with palm trees was a fit location for a celebration of the birth of our Lord (I didn’t care what the Bible said! I knew that He was born at the North Pole, in a hay-filled igloo, surrounded by reindeer!)
Now that we live someplace that’s really cold in the winter, though, I realize that I spent almost a decade in a delusional state. I was wrong! Winter is horrible. Snow is lousy. Christmas should not be disrupted by such meteorological nastiness. If NASA can’t find a way to rearrange our planet’s axial tilt thingy, then the agency needs to install really big, solar powered heaters way up in the atmosphere, to be switched on when the temperature starts to drop. I’m longing for a green, rainy Venezuelan Christmas, just like the ones I used to know.