I love strapping on snowshoes and ducking beneath powder-laden pines—desperately hoping the tip of my tuque doesn’t riffle the branches above and send chilly cascades down the back of my neck. There’s something to be said for traipsing around the inside of a snow globe. Sure, it’s breathtaking. But…it’s cold.
Spring. Even with longer days, there’s still a cool sting tucked between the buttery daffodils. Autumn, too. Even with unbelievable views and leaves the colour of cranberries, the raw crispness buries itself in the barren trees—and your bones.
The honest truth is that I love heat. A friend once viciously side-eyed me when I admitted that crawling inside a vehicle that has been roasting in the sun all day would be the only enticement I’d need to relocate to a place like Lebanon.
“Are you crazy?” she asked, immediately zipping the passenger window as low as it would go. About the car or Lebanon? I wasn’t quite sure.
“You’re stealing my Stifling,” I retorted, mourning the blistering air being sucked out and away. “When it feels like an egg is being fried on the sidewalk—and I’m the egg—it’s perfectly perfect.”
If you’re not the kind of person whose partner shrieks when you accidentally brush your ice-cold tootsies against them, this next part might be hard to understand. Shivering—even in Ontario in July—is one of the superpowers I list on my resume. So, I keenly recall, with sharp detail, the moment in time when I first experienced what most of you feel when you’re too close to a wood stove.
1992. I was a few months shy of 20 years old. I’d been to Spain the year before on a high school trip. In March.
This was Greece. In August.
The previous summer, my boss’ niece from Greece had come to stay. We went from inseparable to pen pals and when she asked in a letter if I wanted to fly across the pond to see her, I dashed to the travel agent faster than I pocketed my tip money.
Sporting a crumpled burgundy sweatshirt and grey track pants ensured to keep my body temperature above zero on the overseas flight, I marched through the plane’s open door. Whoomph. A wall of Athens’ heat smacked me. First in the eyeballs. Then, when sweat nestled into my lower back, I was confused. What was happening?
Warmth? Full-body warmth? Giddy, I was hooked. This heat thing? I wanted more.
Are you like me? Do you choose salt water over ski hills?
My eyebrows rose just a little when I read that, according to the National Post, about 60% of Ontarians loathe the winter. That’s a crapload of peeps who, like me, would choose sandals over Sorels.
Let’s be clear. I don’t hate winter. I just hate how my bones feel during it. I’ll happily chuck snowballs and launch myself backward into snow angels—all while dreaming of sun-kissed skin that doesn’t boast a single goose bump.
While I was in Greece I fell in love. Not only with my friend’s curly-dark-haired cousin. The one who treated me like a kid sister. But also, with someone, or rather something else. The true romantic recipient?
Me + 34-degree Celsius Humidity.
Yes, I fell head over heat-cracked heels for a shiver-free reality.
“The first time you fall in love, it changes your life forever, and no matter how hard you try, the feeling never goes away.” – Anonymous
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