I live in Santa Barbara, which can easily be considered one of the most beautiful places on the mainland. In July it's 72 degrees, in September it's 72 degrees, in December it's 72 degrees, in February it's 72 degrees, in April, well, you get the idea. It's 72 degrees year round, EXCEPT IN JUNE. In June, we get this weather phenomenon affectionately called "June Gloom." When I first moved here almost 11 years ago(!), I called bullshit left and right when it came to June Gloom. I mean, I was from Colorado, where it's either beautiful outside, or it's a living hell outside. But I was tough. I could handle anything. Whiteouts? DUN. Thunderstorms? Bring 'em on! Hail? Shmail. I scoffed at the idea of being cold in 50 degree weather... then, I moved here. Shit.
We had THE MOST BEAUTIFUL WEEKEND last weekend (seriously, no lies, 80 degrees, not-a-cloud-in-the-sky-it-should-be-illegal-to-stay-inside type of weekend that was filled with BBQs, disc golf, sailing and convertibles). The sun set on May 31st and I swear I haven't seen it since. Yes, I know, it's only two days later, but still. It's cloudy, chilly... gloomy, even. And it's NOT 72 degrees. In fact, it's 58 degrees. Y'all are luckily I dragged my hungover ass out of bed this morning and made it into work at all.
I supposed I shouldn't bitch too much, seeing as there's currently an ocean being taken over by the oil-gods, Guatemala just got swallowed by a giant-ass sinkhole, and you know, there are starving kids all over other countries, blah blah blah. But dude... I'M COLD!
(Giant-ass sinkhole... no lies)