Warm

About 15 years ago I spent a winter in Montreal. It was really, really cold. After that I thought I was done with winter. I got over it and ended up spending six in Ottawa. Not much difference there. Winter seemed manageable.

I never considered myself a warm-weather person. I have memories of sweating myself to sleep in a second-floor apartment on Queen West in Toronto in the middle of the summer. No escape from the thick, stagnant air. I hated it. I've gone to movies to escape the mid-summer heat. I've taken rides in air conditioned cars for a break. 

This morning I walked out of the office to grab a coffee and there was a damp chill in the air. It was probably 20 degrees out, but cloudy and that off-the-lake breeze that is surprisingly brisk. I kind of shuddered a bit. The mere hint of cool sends me back three months to shorter days and longer sleeves. 

The one thing I like about the change of seasons is that the one you're in prepares you for the one that follows. You're ready for spring, you're ready for summer, you're ready for fall and more-or-less OK with the onset of winter. 

What I notice now is that my tolerance for the low-light, low-temp extremes from December to March is a lot lower and my thirst for heat and humidity is much higher. Readiness for the new season does not mean acceptance of its full duration.

The other day I was walking home along Queen East in a dark, long-sleeved dress shirt, feeling the heat against my back and grateful for the sweat trickling down between my shoulder blades. I want the warmth. I want the green. I want the light. I am not ready for a change.