While talking to one of my best friends from home, I realized how little it feels like winter let alone the holiday season on the west coast. Although seasonal depression frequented my college years (with -30 degree weather and 6 feet of snow), I still have great memories embedded in me of listening to John Mayer’s Continuum while crushing on boys in pea coats.
In California, people wear pea coats in 60 degree weather.
This is my second “winter” in Los Angeles, and the jury is still out on the whole thing. I enjoy not feeling sucked into eight months of cold and misery, but I also miss coming out of those months feeling alive and refreshed. Not to mention I rock winter fashion way better than sun dresses (the queen of scarves and layers).
I can’t quite explain how it feels to see the first patches of green peaking out from the dirty slush. Or when you can finally take your snow tires off and do 45mph in a 30mph. Or when it reaches 55 degrees and everyone starts wearing tank tops and flip-flops while they run around downtown to get their java fix. These are all things I participated in my whole life, and now I can only relate on a cyber medium.
Again, I’m not quite sure if I miss it, yet. Or if I ever will. I can still get pumpkin spice lattes here. I can still wear tank tops in December. More importantly, I can still crush on boys in pea coats, and even meet John Mayer (again).
I suppose for me, nostalgia has always been spawned from people versus places. Maybe when I’m incapable of having healthy and meaningful relationships in California, then I will miss the cold. It stood for friendship. It stood for my last grasp of innocence. It’s like Salinger says, “Don’t ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.”
Merry Christmas, from the warmth.