How to Be Chill

Pun intended

Spring in Los Angeles begins around January 1st, or at least it feels that way. Oddly, though, it’s been chilly lately—the cold snap timed exactly to the minute of when I bundled up my wool sweaters and packed them in mothproof bags for their long summery slumber. It got so cold that I had to fish a few out to use during this last unseasonable spell.

Photo by Darius Cotoi on Unsplash

I hate when people who don’t live in LA get all sassy when I say it gets cold here. News flash: IT GETS COLD HERE. We are not in the tropics, where it is sultry all the time; we are in the desert, where the air thins as soon as the sun slips over the horizon. Whenever I have one of these (totally stupid) conversations in which someone who doesn’t live here asserts that it is always 80 degrees in Los Angeles and I should stop whining about being cold, I remind them that I’m from the Midwest, and I know perfectly well what cold weather feels like, and I’m not a ninny who thinks anything below 75 is cause for hypothermia. Spare me. I know from cold. I remember one winter when I was in college, in the VERY COLD town of Ann Arbor, Michigan, it was thirteen below zero, and I went cross-country skiing down my street on the fresh, fluffy layer of snow that had paralyzed the entire city. Memories!

Adding to my cold weather cred, I remember quite clearly some winter days in Cleveland, during my tender years, when the snow was as high as an elephant’s eye, and—this might be imaginary, bear with me—we had a bit of trouble opening the front door because the big, slumpy snowdrifts had leaned in and blocked it. We got tons and tons of snow. I realize I was smaller and shorter, so the piles of snow seemed, relatively speaking, bigger than they might now that I’m a full-grown adult, but I also know that they just don’t get snow like that anymore—snow that blocks doorways, snow that comes down in boatloads.

Both of my parents were very big on shoveling snow. When my mother was in her mid-eighties, she still shoveled her driveway, which was ridiculous, but she was of the generation that saw shoveling as almost a sign of virtue, and she was reluctant to give it up. We had a full array of shovels, and often my mother started cooking dinner, and would have things on a simmer, and she would suit up and head out for a spot of shoveling, just to “clean up the driveway”. My dad was very interested in shovel mechanics and would try to engineer improvements on the shovels; that was his jam. And then he’d knuckle down and shovel for an hour tossing snow into great white heaps, where they formed hard little mountain ranges along the length of our driveway.

I never imagined I’d live somewhere without snow; it was so familiar to me. Sometimes snow annoyed me—mainly, I grumped about cleaning it off my car and I often did a lousy job and then hoped the air rushing by as I drove would do the rest of the cleaning for me. Sometimes gigantic sheets of icy snow crashed off my car into the road. But it just was to be expected, and managed. I never became a shoveler; my parents would be disappointed in me, I know. But I did become a tosser of ice-melting products, at least.

Last winter, in Los Angeles, we had a very cold day, and rain, and a baby-powder-like dusting of snow fell on the Hollywood Sign. It was fabulous. It was also, thank goodness, proof that could be used anytime this LA-never-gets-cold conversation arises.

SHOW NOTES

—Finally dove into The Pitt and never want it to end. I was a huge St. Elsewhere fan and my first really TV crush was on Dr. Kildare, so I’m a fan of doctor shows. But I somehow never got on the Grey’s Anatomy bandwagon, and thought perhaps I was just done with the genre. Well, evidently not.

—Should I keep this Sacai dress?

—Marni makes great shoes. I just got these black pumps, which have exaggerated Vibram-type soles. They’re so chic and actually comfortable.

More soon!

XSusan