Two weeks we have been gone, during which periodic comments were dropped about how winter was finally making a bold statement back home in Denver. Such as, "Oh, I hear they got two feet the last couple of days! The airport had to close down," to which I replied, "Bummer. Hey, wanna go get ice cream?" Or, "Hey, I heard the temperatures in Denver are in the single digits," and I'd say, "Huh. I'll be sure to have a moment of silence when we get down the beach." But then we went to Mexican food after and I forgot.
Because you see, Denver has not always been my home. THIS. THIS made more sense to me. The football throwing and looking for seashells while walking among the palm trees was my ritual growing up. Even in December, it felt perfectly normal. When we left San Diego this morning it was almost 70 degrees. When we landed in Denver it was in the 20's, an advertised improvement over the previous days.
After walking in the door of our house I declared it was "good to be home" for the sake of the children and then in an attempt to salvage some of my California juices that were fighting to stay alive, suggested we dine at our favorite Mexican place for dinner. Which we did, but somehow the festive pink walls and over-sized sombreros just don't scream "Ole!" when one is wearing a winter coat.
Why do I live here again?