We moved to the city last fall. My husband’s cousin, a New York native, welcomed us with open arms. She declared, “You are going to LOVE it. Winter is the BEST season in New York!” That was about as irresponsible as the time my junior high math teacher came to class one day and said in all sincerity, “These are the best days of your lives!”
The aforementioned statement would have been an irresponsible thing to say to a bright-eyed F.O.B. South Carolinian in New York City in ANY year. However, last year was not any year. If you recall, last winter was Snowpocalypse 2014. Needless to say, the entire family had some adjusting to do.
Somehow, we made it through the winter. I was VERY relieved to find out come spring that winter was not the best season in New York. Summer rolled around, and I thought, “No, not even close. Winter is the definitely the worst season.” There was only one problem with summer. I couldn’t really enjoy it. Even as I sat on the beach in a sundress, there was this one little thought nagging me ALL day, EVERY day.