I live in the wrong place. Or maybe I live in the right place but in the wrong time. Wrong time not because I am plagued by nostalgia for a different era like Owen Wilson’s character in Midnight in Paris. Although, the 50s – am-I-right? But wrong time because the weather is going fuckin’ loco. I love Toronto. It is a city that literally never sleeps. And as someone who comes from a government town or as I’ve heard it called “the city that fun forgot” the liveliness of Toronto is exactly what I need. The weather though? Enough.

I remember driving from Ottawa to Toronto as a kid in the winter months and marveling at the fact that the closer and closer we got to the city, the less and less snow we saw. It wasn’t the snow-covered roads, five-foot high snow banks, and seven layer outfits, that I was used to. It was just enough snow around Christmas that Toronto could maintain Canadian status (because what isn’t more Canadian than the idea that we live in a snowstorm?) and once the Christmas trees hit the curb, the snow left the ground. It was, in a word: perfect. I needed to move here.

So I did. But after seven years of living in Toronto, I am broken-hearted. It is not the idea of perfection I once thought it to be. It’s turned into seven months of winter, plus one month of rain-shit-storms before and after winter. Really we have three months of sunshine, if we’re lucky. The reasons for this are clear. But this isn’t a post on global warming. It’s a post on change. Toronto has changed. And maybe it’s time I did too. The sunshine is calling me. And I’ve hit ignore on that call for way too long.