The thing about cold ...or being out of context

I love cold weather. I always have and suspect I always will. Minnesota in December this year was a dream come true. For a change I wasn't dreaming of a white Christmas; I was living one. It was cozy and inviting, and it wasn't wonderful just because it was Christmas. In a world surrounded with snow food tasted better (unfortunately), smells in the air were more intense, and life somehow seemed as "crisp" as the yellow and blue houses against a backdrop of snow. It was all I had hoped it would be and more. Oddly, I never felt particularly cold.

When I returned to Houston, what to my wondering eyes should appear but temperatures in the upper 20's and lower 30's! I was ready for it; I had just weathered Minnesota! It was the strangest thing, though. Here at home the cold seemed to seep through my pores and wrap its icy fingers around me. I couldn't seem to get warm, no matter what I layered on me. The heater didn't seem to be pulling its weight either. It wasn't cheerful or exciting; instead, I found myself battling depression. It puzzled me.

Really, though, we were odd bedfellows, Houston and ol' Jack Frost. I don't think he was comfortable with us, and we sure weren't comfortable with him. In Minnesota he was right at home, but not here. Here we didn't know how to entertain him, and his visit mainly made us nervous. Perhaps we put him on the defense or something. It just didn't feel the same.