When I was living in Southern California, I would say such clever things as "I miss the change of seasons". After a few years back in the Midwest, I can update that phrase to more accurately describe my feelings: "I miss the idea of the change of seasons".

Witnessing the change of seasons is an important part of life that was missing out there in the land of perpetual summer, where 15°C (59°F) meant it was time to wear a winter coat and complain about the cold. The changing of days is the most natural cycle that we witness because it hits us on both frequency and amplitude—light, dark, light, dark, day in, day out, more-or-less everywhere on the planet. The changing of seasons is the next most natural cycle—bloom, grow, harvest, rest. Or: greening, green, orange, white. Or: warming, hot, cooling, cold. It really felt like something was missing—some kind of ominous but hard to describe absence, like walking into an anechoic chamber and losing some of the qualities of sound that make it full.

Peering into this cold snap from the edge, I would trade this weather in for the "missing" winter weather. Not wanting what you have is a luxury when you can do your not-wanting in the comfort of a t-shirt.