When I began doing yoga and stuff like that in my teen years, one mental calming exercise asked me to conjure up an imagined retreat. It was my ideal house. It had a yoga room with meditation mats and ornate Hindu décor in vibrant reds and mustard yellows. It had a sitting room for sipping tea, and through the windows, I could see the pale sandy beach with water that matched the sky.

Given the choice and means, I think I would choose to live on a nice warm beach. I feel happy visiting them on vacation, hearing the waves, and letting the salty air curl my hair. If not for the looming threat of killer tidal waves and flooding, I think living at the beach would be ideal.

I groan every April and my brain is locked in anticipation doing a dance like a kid who has to pee as I wait for summer to come back. I find new ways to celebrate the disappearance of snow and return of warm temperatures a different way each year, whether that be a sunny run, tanning in the yard, or drinks on a patio. I have welcomed the effects of global warming that have meant warmer winters, fewer days of oh-my-goodness freezing that leaves your eyelashes as homes to icicles. I can remember walking home on the last day of elementary school before winter break with four-foot high snow banks on the front lawn. It was fun when I was eight to run onto our front lawn and do a snow angel and make snow tunnels with my Dad. Now that I’m older and don’t even have a front lawn, I haven’t the need for large snow banks and ice.

But I must say I was disappointed that this Christmas was green. It was like a rehearsal, like the real Christmas would happen when the snow finally came. Here I am in early January in Ottawa, Canada, and it is warm enough to wear a fleece pullover outside. They say this weekend will be warm enough to even forego a second layer. Every February we have Winterlude, a giant festival on our giant canal where people skate. Yesterday as I ran my canal route, I looked to my left shoulder and saw a slushy, grey mush that in no way will be ready to host the world’s largest skating party. It was a little sad.

I can’t help but wonder if at this rate, the warm beach paradise I dream of isn’t too far away from migrating up here to Canada. It’s not as fun that way. I’m happy to imagine the prospect that the summer weather will eventually outlast the winter weather of a 12-month cycle. But I’m not sure what I feel if that mean’s green Christmases, the end of tobogganing and no longer having the need for hot chocolate.