As I write this (a few days in advance of its posting), it’s snowing outside. It’s a lovely, slow snowfall with fluffy flakes, and it’s so pretty to look at.
Yesterday when I got home from work, I took the dogs for a brisk walk. Brisk because 1) all three of us needed some exercise after being cooped up indoors for several rainy days and 2) it gets dark early these days and it’s nearly impossible to get even two miles in before the light is gone. But I didn’t even walk two miles; I only went one. I have this circulation problem in my fingers that causes them, when cold, to turn bluish and either go numb at the tips or become really painful. (It used to be more numbness, but recently I’ve had pain more often than numbness.) And after a mile, my fingers were hurting and I wanted to warm up.
So, while I don’t dislike winter the way I used to, it does cause me some problems. I certainly prefer the warmer months. I like the sunshine in spring and summer (cloudy days are the usual in this part of Indiana during winter), and I like for my fingers not to hurt.
Chef, on the other hand, loves winter. It’s his favorite season. And, being an ice carver and all, that’s perhaps to be expected. But it’s more than that. See, in the summer, bugs bite him. A lot. And he itches and scratches and is generally a little bit miserable with all the skin problems. In the winter, he doesn’t have those problems, so he’s happier.
I’m happier in summer. He’s happier in winter.
At least I’m glad we live in a place where we have seasons so that we can both be happy sometimes.
And we are happy when we’re together, which is the most important.