It’s October, people. In Florida, that means it’s a mild 80–95 degrees Fahrenheit, with roughly 80% humidity.
I need it to hurry up and get cold.
My whole life, I’ve lived in The Sunshine State. I’ve raked all of three leaves that fell from the tree and attempted to jump in my pitiful pile. I’ve passed on Thanksgiving Day football games, because the air is too thick for me to run around. I’ve spent Christmas Day outside, sweating in a turtleneck and jeans. (That’s not entirely the weather to blame; a turtleneck? Yikes.)
I’m a creature who prefers being cold to hot. I would rather bundle up in a blanket than feel sweat beading and my skin boiling … weird I know.
That said, this state is too damn hot. And it’s too damn late in the year for me to wear a cardigan and want to rip it to shreds on the walk to my car.
I would like to take a break from shaving my legs — but I can’t wear pants every day when the Sahara desert is my backyard. I have scarves and long-sleeve shirts that have hung in my closet for 10 months, and there’s no sign of them making a return to my wardrobe anytime soon. I long for a walk from Starbucks where a hot coffee doesn’t make me want to take an ice bath afterward. I daydream about the evening when I will stumble home from the bar and shiver from the cold.
All I ask is for an itty bitty drop in temperature. 10–15 degrees would be heavenly. Is it too much to ask that I be able to make it through the night without kicking off my comforter in a fit of fury because I feel like I’m in a sauna?
Such is life. And to that I say: F you, Florida.