Hot Blooded

Am I a hot mama? Not lately. I am in a funk. This happens every winter.

I like hot, sizzling, fry an egg on the sidewalk weather. To me, anything below 70 degrees in cold. I should probably move to a more desert-like environment. I’ll bet in Arizona they don’t show people on the news with frozen snot adhered to their mustaches.

I’ve lived in the Chicago area my entire life and have never gotten accustomed to winter. I hate it. I loathe snow, ice, wind chills and sub-zero temperatures. I dread warming up and cleaning off my car, or even worse, having it not start or getting stuck. I hate freezing my ass off to shovel pounds and pounds of heavy, wet, cold crap only to have to do it again a few hours later.

I’m not a fan of parkas, hats, gloves, sweaters, boots (Cat Boots excluded), gas bills, dry skin and/or chapped lips. I’m hot blooded and can’t wait ‘til summer when, once again, 103 is burning through the inside of me.

I’m tired of slipping and sliding and not being able to walk across my front lawn to my driveway because there is a mountain of snow and I’ve been shivering and hiding under blankets for three weeks straight now.

Enough!

When I get in this funk, the vicious cycle begins. I get anxious and my TMJ symptoms flare up. Because my jaw hurts like hell (where it is warm, by the way), I can’t eat which leads to non-stop hunger pangs, crankiness and insomnia. I close my eyes and try to remember how it felt when my husband and I stepped off a plane in Las Vegas to a 112 degree temperature. He almost keeled over. I thought I had found heaven on earth. Well, almost. In my heaven, hoochie-mamas (who do more than dance) won’t be passing out their calling cards to my hubby while we walk down the street. (What is up with that?)

Mother Nature, let me lay it on the line, I want to know what you are doing after the snow. It’s up to you. Summer and I want a secret rendezvous.