Like Frozen Tundra

January is traditionally one the hardest months of the year for me. Self-diagnosed with seasonal affective disorder, I generally have a difficult time with dark, cold, and gloom. And while I completely admit that Paris is not nearly as cold as New York has been experiencing lately, I often contemplate the idea that at some point in my life I should attempt to live in a much warmer climate for a while. For me, cold is like being trapped in shackles on a frozen tundra. I'm aware that some people on earth find the cold air and snow-laced lands of winter rather invigorating, but I am not one of them. And while some people have accused me of being overly sensitive to the sensation, anyone who has held my hand in the winter months can attest that I am never ever making up how cold I get. To the point where I once got into bed with the man I was dating fully clothed in my clothes, including boots, jacket, hat, scarf, and refused to believe that it would become warm once the heat kicked into gear... or ever, for that matter...

Admittedly, I associate things like Christmas and the holidays with winter air, and I wouldn't have it any other way. I embrace the full charm of Jack Frost's pageantry parading through the streets, along with the romantic poetry of a crackling fire, mulled mead, and a snowflake sprinkled kiss. But once December has passed, I believe the sun should shine and the radiant beams of spring should immediately permeate my soul. On the contrary, not only does the bitter cold set in, but the lingering glimmer of holiday cheer has faded, the New Year's resolutions are tantalizingly (or tormentingly) irritable, and the melancholy arrives. And as a person whose fuel is the fire of passion and warmth, I find that being chilled of feeling just does not serve me well. 

I've discussed the word "melancholy" with some of my French friends in past, and I find it is very closely associated with French culture at times. In its literature and films, the French do not seem to crave a happy ending or a champion conquest. As I have tried to explain, though I am a true sucker for joy and triumph, I am equally content to ball my eyes out over tragic goodbyes or sit in shock over unfortunate calamities. The issue I take with melancholy is that it always seems so despairingly passive, wallowing around in accepted uncomfortable circumstances. Oh sure, I can obsess or pine or over analyze with the best of them.  I might even be queen!  But I think that's more to do with my penchant for the dramatic than anything else. Nothing is thoroughly meaningful without a bit of angst or a speech. But amidst the coldest months of the year when life is frequently blanketed with a fog of icy breath, I just think that a sundress and a pair of sandals would help ; )