.vaille que vaille. : californian decembers

Holy snowballs, is it really already December? "Cold" weather is certainly a worthy contender; it badgers me into becoming a different person. I add the insinuating quotations because really, southern Californian "cold" should have its own definition (our coldest being no less than 58 degrees). Though, I am no stranger to enduring REAL cold. Flashbacks to blistering snow in Romania last February come to mind: complete with mornings so cold that you would rather stay in bed for five more hours than face even the idea of a single patch of skin emerging from the insulation resembling precious whale blubber. I'm content that soap suds spewing out of overhead contraptions at Disneyland are the closest remnant of a winter wonderland here. Roll your eyes, snow shovelers! I'd rather be strolling down a sun-beaten street in Los Angeles than trudging through a barren white plain (occasionally tinted by the unashamed critter) in six parkas, ten pairs of socks, and rainboots.

As I was saying, when "cold" weather strikes, my range of activities becomes limited to:

Eating (more sugar, more caffeine, more in general)
Sleeping
Instagramming
Watching a stupid amount of Law and Order
Reading every book within arm's reach
Buying books to read on Amazon even though I have more than enough in my reading queue (I know, who the heck has a reading queue? I do.)
Lighting candles
Nudging my dog with my foot until she rolls over and makes disgruntled noises under her breath but is too lazy to walk away

Once in a while, when it strikes my fancy, I will force myself to participate in the goings-on of the world, but then I realize it's too cold, and I comfortably cling to my list of self-preserving activities.

It's hard to believe that this same time last year, I was sweating my armpits off during monsoon season in Mozambique. Instead of singing American Christmas carols, I was singing acapella songs in Shangaan. Instead of warm sweaters, I was slathering on sunscreen that smelled like playdough. Instead of gifts on Christmas day, we promised ourselves a new start.

I was finally able to retrieve my diploma from UCLA Registrar on campus yesterday. It seemed like such a funny way to unceremoniously end an enormous chapter of my life. The woman at the window was yelling across her office to a colleague about how sore her back was from last night's yoga session while I scribbled some information onto a poorly cut sheet of scrap paper. Once I finished, she gave me a cursory smile, along with a "congratulations" backed by enthusiasm that could follow making a successful bowel movement. (Subjective, of course, I am not belittling those who have difficulty with such vital accomplishments)

When I finally got to my car and placed that important sheet of paper in its fancy frame, I set it aside and said, "Well God, where one dream ends, another begins."

Then I cried, because I'm a sentimental sap.