Let's Do This, Cold Seasons

Sometime over the course of the last year, I came to really like being a homebody. But it's not the drinking-alone-in-the-closet-and-listening-to-Joy-Division type of homebody. Instead, it's the hey-my-roommates-are-here-and-we-have-a-backyard-for-days-and-a-basement-for-nights-so-everyone-should-just-come-here, and I imagine it'll only become that more so with the cold. This year, the ante's been upped, as my room has a television now and our entryway features a coatrack these days. The basement has been spruced up and we have a drink cart in the dining room. We have fortified ourselves in this home, readying ourselves for autumn and winter fun. But what does it all mean?

• The cold seasons mean sleeping in a bed that I've made almost stupefyingly comfortable. I'm talking a pillow-top mattress with additional padding and some muthafuckin' Egyptian cotton sheets. What's the thread count? Probably a billion. Oh, did I mention I just had my comforter dry-cleaned? I made a bed that Queen Amidala and Tom Haverford could sleep in.

• The cold seasons mean coming home on Sunday nights to all of my roommates hanging out in the family room with the lights off and a fire going. We lay around with the dog and crack jokes while a few of us work on projects (writing, restringing a guitar, etc). We picked up the habit or hobby from gentlemen of the 19th Century. We're like the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, except we're not rapists, drug addicts and murderers.

• The cold seasons mean using the fireplace in general. "Oh, hey there, harem of supermodels, did you notice that I had a fire going?" I'll say in my finest of top hats and longest of tuxedo tails. "Oh, did you care for a drink? We have red wine, good whiskey and fine cigars," I'll laugh, drawing my hand over our drink cart. "Maybe we should take this to the basement where we keep the beer and the secrets," I'll whisper, leading the conga line of babes down the steps to their wildest dream/doom.

• The cold seasons mean I get to make hot cocoa at a constant. It also means I'll spend evenings wondering if I can turn hot cocoa into a legitimate soup, as I do every year. Then I'll consider peppermint the only legitimate ingredient. Then I'll realize more chocolate would be the only sensible move, and then I'll think about diabetes, and then I'll eat actual soup. Oh, fuck, the cold seasons also mean eating more soup!

• The cold seasons mean me having that conversation with myself yet again about buying more jackets but still just wearing a hoodie most days. It also means my typical summer wardrobe of button-up shirts and jeans makes more sense. Everyone looks better/deeper in layers, right?

• The cold seasons mean movie nights bundled the fuck up. I'm talking blankets everywhere, a few sleeping bags tossed around and extra pillows because whatever the fuck ever, you only live once.

• The cold seasons mean long hot showers at night. This could be classed up by booze or classed down by drugs. It's a really user-friendly experience.

• The cold seasons mean Christmas. FUCKING. CHRISTMAS.

At the end of every summer, everyone seems to complain about the heat, and I always feel like the one guy who doesn't want the days of swimming and nights of cruising die out. But there's something about  this year (maybe it finally was the heat) that has be all ready to move into crisp afternoons of autumn and the eternal night of winter.