There’s nothing more irritating than Southern Californians complaining about the weather. We have it so good here, yet we can always find a reason to be dissatisfied. We whine if it’s too hot. We lament if the AC is blowing too cold. We look woefully into the skies and ask God what we did to deserve this when it rains. We are spoiled sunshine brats and we are proud.

This morning I was peering into my closet as one might peer into a crystal ball when I realized two things. One – I don’t have any pants that fit me. This is not to say that I’ve gone through any significant weight loss or gain, it’s just to say that stylish pants aren’t a huge priority in my life. The second thing I realized was that I was actually looking for pants to wear. This both surprised and angered me for it was the middle of June and I do not wear pants in June.

Having inherited a rather relaxed attitude toward clothing, I’m always trying to figure out how to wear as few clothes as possible. For instance, bras were out of the question until a physics-friendly roommate sat me down and explained in graphic detail, the brutal law of gravity. There are also people out there who continue to be shocked when they see me actually wearing shoes. So when I find myself trying to figure out which ill-fitting pair of pants to wear in June, I become very confused. I wonder why I’m not picking out a brightly printed sundress to skip down Hollywood Boulevard in. The reason I’m not is because Los Angeles has been long buried underneath the dreaded June Gloom.

Imagine waking up to gray skies. Imagine going to sleep to gray skies. Imagine all the hours in between being gray. Imagine it for a month straight. Okay, many of you probably have no trouble imagining this at all because you live in a place that actually has seasons. Let’s try something else. Imagine it’s late spring in Los Angeles. The weather is absolutely gorgeous and you see summer unfolding before you like one long 85 degree day. You expect this sunny weather to last well into October, so you’ve ditched the winter boots, folded up the sweaters and coats and are now on the lookout for cute strappy sandals. You’ll need a pedicure to go with those sandals and opt for French tips because they’re simple and classy. Except two days after you forked over the extra dough for the French tips, clouds begin to gather and something unthinkable happens. It sprinkles.

Now imagine those pretty toenails covered back up in the winter boots you just put away for the summer. Imagine regretting that spring cleaning trip you made to Goodwill because even though you got rid of the worst fashion no-no culprits, at least those offenders were warm. You wonder why when you wake up in the morning, your room is like a sweat lodge. You discover that your housemate has cranked the heat up to eighty. The side of your brain that can do simple addition at 7:30am calculates that during this eight to twelve hour period that the heat has been on, your gas bill has just doubled for the month. You divide that number by two housemates instead of the three people that live there. You do this because the one who has cranked the heat up so unreasonably high in June recently lost their job and may or may not be there when the bill finally shows up. You suspect that one of your most cherished beliefs (that one should put on socks before going to bed) has been utterly destroyed.

Each morning before I open my eyes I imagine blue skies outside of my window. Sometimes there’s a clearing and brilliant rays shine down onto my city, but after a few moments they’re swallowed up by the gray again. Los Angeles without sunshine is like a world without hope. I’ve lost my motivation to strive for bigger and better things, like driving west of La Brea to meet my friends for bottomless mimosas on Sundays. Living in a world without hope is unbearable. I’d rather be living in a world without pants.