Why Floridians Hate Florida.

I think it's safe to say almost every native Floridian goes through a period of time where they hate living in Florida. I don't have the statistics to back me up on that, but I'm just going to go ahead and make that statement anyway.

For me, it happens around September. Ah, remember September? Feels like it was just a hot minute ago now, but would you believe that it was six months ago already? For most parts of the country, when fall rolls around, the leaves start to change color, the air turns crisp, and the 20 something's begin to Instagram their first PSL of the season. In Florida, the 20 something's still Instagram their lattes, but we're doing it in cut off shorts because it's still 90 some odd degrees outside.

It's around September that I think, "Ugh, I hate you, Florida. One day, I'll live some place where there's actual seasons, and I can experience fall in its entirety with bon fires and cozy knit blankets and scarves and I can finally drink a pumpkin spice whatever the hell with true purpose."

This feeling typically lasts through Thanksgiving and Christmas, because whaddaya know, IT STILL ISN'T COLD. Some Floridians may fool you with their fake displays of happiness, like building smiling snowmen made out of sand at the beach on Christmas Day. Those people are liars. 

It finally starts to get cold around January, with real "wintery" spurts that have a tendency to ruin our weekends. It even got down to the 20s in good ol' Tampa a couple of weekends ago, for about two days (RIP Florida Winter: 2/19/15 - 2/20/15). With all the bitching about the lack of cold weather I've done up until this point, one might assume I would be jumping for joy. I'm not. Christmas is over, and I'm tired of wondering if anyone will notice that I've worn the same pair of boots five days in a row. Floridians also don't invest in multiple pairs of boots because what's the point?

Then, out of nowhere, Florida redeems herself. After a rainy February 28th, I woke up on March 1st to sunshine and 78 degrees, and I went to the beach. I scrolled through my snow-infested Instagram feed from the comfort of my beach towel and thought to myself, "Maybe I'll never move out of Florida." Until August rolls around and the real feel is 105 degrees and my thighs are sticking together. Then the process repeats itself.