Posted By Daisy on November 22, 2010

Turning the corner from fall toward winter has been my least happy, least functional time of year (when on the East Coast at least) for as long as I can remember.  There are bonuses to this time of year, of course, like the holidays, and the clothes.  Although I am less enamored by the loveliness of fall clothing now that I am no longer a corporate girl who takes it as a given that she’ll be spending an inordinate amount of time putting herself together at the start of each day.   I just hate the cold.  And the wet, but mostly because it’s associated with cold.  (A summer rainstorm can be lovely.)  My threshold for these things is low — very, very low.  My scale is Hot, Warm, Mild, Cool, Crisp, Brisk, Cold, Freakishly Cold and Siberia.  I’m wearing layers at Cool, but I can handle it.  I’ll take a stroll with a heavy sweater and cashmere gloves when it’s Brisk if I really, really like you, but that’s about as far as it goes for me.   70 degrees is Mild.  69 degrees is Cool.  Yes, I’m weird.  I may also (okay, probably do) have a touch of seasonal affective disorder, but that seems like such a Desperate Housewifey thing to say.  More than likely we all have a touch of it, as in it is just a part of the human condition to react to changes in daylight patterns, but we seem to get so much joy these days out of slapping the word “disorder” onto so many human conditions, and who am I to take that away from us?

So, my ramblings — do they have a point?   Yes they do.  This is the year the Bear is figuring out the theory of relativity.  It was summer, and there was swimming, and now it is not and there is not.  There was Halloween, and there will not be another until next year.  It will snow in the winter.  The snow will melt in the spring.  More important, the Bear was 3 and he is now 3 and a HALF.  And in the spring, he will be 4.  “Mommy, when will you be 21?”  “I was 21 a long time ago honey.”  “When will you be 41?”  “I’m 41 now.”  “When will you be 42?”  “In August.” “Why?”  This is a conversation we have had approximately 213 times.   I once mentioned that a familiar song used to play on the radio frequently when I was in law school.  Now, he wants to place all songs in time relative to my graduate education.  “No, sweetie, Single Ladies was not written yet when mommy was in law school.”  He has even somehow gathered that things ancient come with a sense of mystery and reverence.  He’ll make up a story on the spot and when asked about it he’ll inevitably begin by solemnly saying that the tale is “very, very old.”

Watching all of this unfold before me has been the best medicine yet for my requisite winter blues.

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