I hate winter. And I'm not saying that lightly in a way where I would tell myself "Now, jes, Hate is a strong word - maybe you should reconsider...?" No. No reconsideration needed, self. It was a very deliberate, intentional, and accurate usage of the word.

I hate the cold. It's physically painful to me. I don't want to get out of bed. I hate that it gets dark so early. I hate that my bathtub is colder than my water heater can make up for unless I turn it up to scalding temperatures, which I can't with a toddler in the house, so I have only tepid baths. I hate that I can never find my slippers, and my feet get so cold I can't feel them. I hate that everything's brown and the trees look like they're dead. I hate the anxiety I feel around the holidays - the media pressure for us all to be so happy and lovey and together, when that should happen naturally without having to eat yourselves sick or exchange presents. Not that I'm not for eating and presents - those are great - it's just the forcedness that bothers me, the pressure we put on ourselves and each other.

And worse, I hate that I hate all this.

Karl loved the winter. He loved snow days, and the way the air even smelled cold. He loved sweaters and hats (when he could find one that fit his rather massive head). He loved bringing in his plants and making a jungle room out of out basement. He loved bracing against a chilly evening with a roaring fire in the firepit and a good stiff drink. He loved the black and yellow, nearly warn to threads hand knit house slippers his grandmother made. He loved Christmas - looking for trinkets and knick knacks for people at thrift shops, or dropping completely un-subtle hints about what he'd like to find under the tree.

This was his season, and I want so much to be able to connect with it, if only to feel more connected to him.

And I would, only, it's so damn cold I just can't motivate myself. So if you'll excuse me, I'll be under the down comforter for a while. I'll see you in March.