My Life as a Californian Eskimo
George R.R. Martin once wrote “nothing burns like the cold,” and up until these last few weeks I had no idea what he was talking about. Of course things burn hotter than the cold. The oven, a fire, Miley Cyrus’ desire to twerk. They all burn like hot magma. That was until California turned to Winter after 11 months of cold-ish Summer, slightly colder Summer and, of course, Summer.
These have been dark days for us Californians. Mother Nature has played a cruel joke on us. In my 26 years as a resident of California*, my body has grown accustom to temperatures north of 70 degrees without a cloud in the sky. And now, 50 degrees and overcast? This truly is survival of the fittest.
I feel like I woke up in a bad movie. Like I’m in the straigh-to-DVD sequel to “The Grey.” Instead of being a bad ass Liam Neeson badassingly punching wolves in the throats while enduring sub-zero temperatures, I am braving the elements sans wolves. This story is scary enough we don’t need wolves to pile onto our already frozen temperatures. This is California for god sake.
*Other than the one month I lived in Yuma. That got weird, but that’s another story. Actually it’s really quick: Don’t live in Yuma. Ever.
Now I bet you’re asking yourselves, “Lance, why don’t you just turn on the heater?”
Well, 1) you’re a dick, and 2) I have tried.
With the heater not working, I can see my breath as I exhale in the comfort of my own home. Who can possibly live like this? I force myself into alcoholism in the name of being warm while dressing like a poor man’s Eskimo. That smile you see on my face? It’s not because I’m happy. I’m daydreaming about my next burning hot shower that will give me solace for a plethora of seconds.
Driving home from work, I spy a homeless person in 30-degree weather and I’m saddened. An even more shocking chill runs down my spine, what if that was me? I already can’t handle 50-degree temperatures in my apartment. With this newfound perspective on life, I immediately race past this homeless man into my heated car, to warm up of course. I sped home on a mission to unshackle myself from my Eskimo-like costume of two sweaters, a beanie, wool socks and my trusty beanie to sleep.
I write this as a cautionary tale, my friends. I now know what that crazy George R.R. Martin is saying. I hope none of you have to brave the bitter burning of the blistering cold. People (me) should not have to live like this. Thanks a lot, Al Gore.