Frozen Pride

My Colorado roots have always made me approach West Coast winters with a certain pride. Ha! Look at all these silly Angelenos, walking around in their parkas and snow hats. My boogers used to freeze on the way to school, people! This isn’t real winter! This isn’t cold!

I would love telling stories about having to start my car fifteen minutes before I wanted to go anywhere so that my engine could unfreeze. Or, the time we couldn’t leave my house in Denver for a week because the snow drifts were too deep.

It was thirty-four degrees in LA the other day. Ha! Couldn’t even make it to freezing!

Still blinded by Mile High Pride, I left for work that morning in a short-sleeve shirt and a big, smug smile on my face.

It’s California! How bad could it be? I said to myself as I set up my valet stand, wearing no gloves or hat.

That’s weird. Why are my teeth hitting each other? I thought, as my body desperately chattered my teeth together to produce some semblance of warmth.

Maybe I should’ve worn a jacket, I thought as I gripped a stack of valet tickets. Not because I was so dedicated to my job as Valet Attendant, but because my hands were literally too cold to un-grip the tickets.

I don’t know when it happened, or how, but after just five years in Los Angeles, my Colorado Coat seems to have worn off.

I am officially a baby when it comes to the cold. I would swallow my pride, but it’d have to thaw first.

Next week, I am flying to Wisconsin and then to Colorado for the holidays. I’ll be good with flip-flops and board shorts, right?

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