Before moving to the great state of Colorado, I was living in the panhandle of Oklahoma, where a tornado warning was the local staple, where the majority of my customers were pig farmers; co-workers were Limbaugh fanatics; and neighbors, such thoughtful souls, liked decorating our cars with egg when we suggested that they turn their music down a notch or two. What was NOT to love about this place? But a higher-paying job was calling my name much like the ice cream aisle does at Safeway, and so I heeded the silent tug of more money and moved my family to Alamosa, Colorado.

I had never been here, and so I had this stereotypical picture in my head of a winter wonderland. Even in July. I imagined an oversized playground for skiers, hunters, hikers and water rafters. This appealed to me, even though I don’t have an outdoorsy bone in my body, because it meant people were too busy recreating to be egging cars. I pinned all my hopes and dreams of a happily ever after on this new place called Alamosa.

If any of you have actually been to Alamosa, you might already know that, yes, it is a winter wonderland, in a sparse, desert-ish kind of way. Unfortunately it’s hard to enjoy when the temperatures can delve to -45 degrees Fahrenheit. I hadn’t done very good research before coming here. So I didn’t know, for example, that Alamosa’s yearly average temperature is slightly colder than Juneau, Alaska’s which currently registers at 41.9. I quickly became educated on the subject of How to NOT DIE From the Cold. Growing up in a place where summer clothes stayed out all year long, I didn’t know that it was physically possible for a thick sheet of ice to form on the INSIDE of one’s windows, even when the heat has been running nonstop all night long. I didn’t know diesel fuel could turn to jello, or that your nose could get frost bitten if you stand outside waiting for a bus too long.

This was my fourth big move in five years time, by the way. After my first winter here, which was actually one of Alamosa’s warmest winters on record, I had decided that maybe it wasn’t the place for my family and me after all. I didn’t like wearing five layers of clothes for three-quarters of the year. I didn’t like giving half my paycheck to the heat bill. On top of everything, I hadn’t escaped the Limbaugh fanatics and pig farmers after all. I wanted to run away again.

But there’s a saying around here: What comes to Alamosa, stays in Alamosa, be it cattle, cold air, or crestfallen women. I realized that it had been so easy to blame rowdy neighbors and frozen pipes for everything that was wrong with my life. But the truth was that my problems were much more serious and closer to home, and all the running in the world wasn’t going to make them go away. I had painstakingly trying ignoring/hiding my marital troubles as far back as my memory dared to span. It was time to quit running in search of somewhere better. It was time to deal with the real probs.

I didn’t do it well, as many people can attest to. Deal with the probs, that is. But I no longer label myself “crestfallen.” And I’ve been here in Alamosa seven years strong now. Don’t get me wrong, I still wonder how I’ve managed to live in this godforsaken place for so long when I stop and consider that there isn’t a Target within 120 miles.

But the pig farmers leave their coveralls at home most days. And the Limbaugh fanatics can cook a mean fried turkey. Those three weeks of summer really are gorgeous. And, who knows, maybe someday I’ll work my way up to watching other people ski and raft. In the meantime, I’m adding another layer of clothing and digging my roots down a little deeper because Alamosa is JUST as Utopian as Oklahoma.

And I mean that in the best possible way.

Popularity: 11% [?]