I’m standing in my place of employment, staring at the new wall of winter coats that have slowly been trickling in since the temperature began to drop. I have an extremely curmudgeon-like look on my face and I am not happy. Why, you might ask yourself, would I not be beyond thrilled to be surrounded by racks of nothing but plush, cozy and beyond-comfortable jackets? Aren’t walls like this why I love working retail? Don’t I love ogling cute things before I blow my entire paycheck on them?

Well, I would be a little more excited about these coats if I could actually justify buying one. If I lived almost anywhere else in the country, I would probably buy three. Unfortunately, my geographic location troubles me to the nth degree as it hinders my ability to purchase inappropriate winter clothing.

I can barely justify the number of hoodies hanging in my closet right now. There is no way the number I have is in any direct proportion with the number of days in the year I can actually wear them.

San Diego has no conventional seasons. This outlandish claim can be backed up by scientific proof, evident in the fact that yesterday I wore long jeans, a sweatshirt and tennis shoes (all other shoes I own are open-toed flats or sandals, which would have resulted in frozen extremities) while today I wore shorts, a V-neck T-shirt and sandals.

I dressed in accordance to the weather report both days.

Nevertheless, I have huge problems with this bipolar weather. First of all, can you believe I wore tennis shoes? Although, I don’t think they were tennis shoes in the traditional sense (OK, they were yellow Vans. As if I would be caught dead in a pair of tennis shoes outside the gym, are you kidding me?). Second of all, I am hot-blooded (I’ll give you a minute to stop singing Foreigner in your head) and this inconsistent weather is driving me up the wall.

I hate the heat. I should probably just move up to Seattle and enjoy the Seattle Rain Festival, which starts every year on Jan. 1 and continues through Dec. 31. But here I am in San Diego, and I’m not going anywhere. So, that is just simply out of the question for the time being. Now, if this were the middle of summer, it would be an entirely different story.

I know what I’m getting myself into during summer. I’m getting precisely what I’ve signed up for in the months between June and August. I know it’s going to be hot and gross and I should wear nothing but sandals and sundresses.

However, the fact that I’m being forced into summer attire in the middle of November is absolutely, positively preposterous and I just won’t have it.

How am I supposed to show off my new fall wardrobe if I wake up in the middle of October and Al Roker is telling me it’s going to be “another scorcher over there in the Southwest”? How am I supposed to use and abuse my employee discount on every new sweater and pair of bedazzled jeans if every time I go to put them on I have to rethink my entire outfit? This always happens on days when the sun decides to be that guy who overstays his welcome after everyone else has been clearly ushered out of the party. It’s like, “Dude, if you’re the only one left, and we’re not even that great of friends, you should probably take a hint from your buddies and get to stepping.”

What I wouldn’t give for frigid winds, rainy months and a heated mattress I could actually use. Winter is my favorite season. But what is winter in San Diego? It’s 60 F with a wind chill of 58 F.

I can remember two scenarios that account for the closest I’ve come to experiencing a white Christmas. The first was a trip to Palm Springs with my family a few years ago when we took the Aerial Tramway to the Mount San Jacinto State park and played in the snow for a few hours. However, that was not such a good time once my brother threw a block of ice at me, hitting me square in the shin and almost sent me toppling down a hill. The second was last Christmas, when my dad made a few calls and had some guy come to our house and cover our front lawn with snow that lasted a week. Hollywood magic, I tell ya.

What wouldn’t I give for mittens, scarves, hot chocolate, furry boots and a reason to blissfully snuggle under my covers at night and perfect my cocoon-like sleeping abilities? Sigh. For now, I’ll just do what I do every year. Whine, complain, look at pictures people post on Facebook from parts of the world that actually experience real seasons and pet the faux fur coats that line the walls of my place of employment while observing Mission Valley mall shoppers in their flip-flops and Santa hats.

— Hayley Rafner is a journalism junior.