Tempe, AZ (music; Feist)

I've never spent this time of year in a warm climate. As far back as I can remember I'd reach October and lose feeling in my toes. The numbness would spread gradually upwards until spring when I would thaw out, top to bottom, only regaining feeling in my toes before the first frost of the next season. I'd always imagined growing up and moving as far away from winter's wretched grasp as possible. Naturally, I was overjoyed at the prospect of getting paid for my escape. My postcards to family have been simply location, current temprature, signature.

In some sick joke, my body has begun to betray me. I caught myself shivering at 40 this evening. I went into the bathroom and stared in myself in the mirror, as a horrified mother would her toddler, pitching a fit in a library. You quit this right now. I can take out out of this climate as quickly as I brought you into it, young lady. Oh, I see, a sweatshirt? What are those MITTENS? You straighen yourself up or claim a new state to be from. I'm starting to break.

Hearing holiday music here went from humorous to just irritating. Usually, I am far from a Christmas music fan. Hearing someone slaughter the high notes of "Oh Holy Night," at some point becomes a personal attack. You should have the right to defend yourself as you see fit. Butcher the national anthem. Sabatoge Mariah Carey when you're alone in your car. But if you can't hit that note, don't try**. Lately though, I can't turn the station. That frozen feeling creeps back through me and I sit. Baffled.

Folks here don't know the half of these songs. The imagery of "Let it Snow..." cannot be fully appreciated without having ever remembered trash pick up at the last minute and having to drag the garbage can and recycling out of the garage in single digit temps. With negative windchills. In slippers. Without gloves on.

States like these need a different soundtrack, B-sides options that don't include certain words like snow or frost. You can't listen to "Walking in a Winter Wonderland" in the desert. I get it, I've been known to sing "Sweet Home Alabama" under the right circumstances. But this is different. This is sacred. I feel as though I'm in a Christmas themed party in July. The decorations are up. The glow of the yule log is on the local station. But the weather outside is not, as some may say, frightful. Not even close.

For getting away with this for so long, we get to keep "Have yourself a Merry Little Christmas." You can have "Everyone's a kid at Christmas time." Take it or leave it.


**Exceptions to this rule involve Baileys, an organ, and the same rumpled ill-distributed pages of holiday classics my family purposely butchers each year out of spite. Dear Jesus, no new puppy for you, but we got you this, ahem...)