I spend a lot of time at home. Perhaps this is a slight misstatement, as it seems that a week will go by and I’ve left the house only to 1) go grocery shopping 2) attend dance class 3) there is no third time.

Perhaps I should worry that I’m becoming agoraphobic? That I’m going to be the scary woman in the crusted bathrobe who has the painfully distorted worldview — everything fish bowled like the front door peep-hole? That I’ll be that “she seemed like a nice person” who’s neighbors only know something is wrong when the a strange smells start coming from the apartment? The hermit who’s door will be broken down by policemen, only find me in a state of serious decomposition on the carpet, my darling pet rats sadly nibbling me as my body liquifies and dribbles through the floor, staining the stucco ceiling of my neighbor below?

Perhaps it should concern me that, despite living a few blocks from the beach, I like to hide inside, my heinous vertical blinds drawn against the sunlight, protecting me from the gazes of people eternally working on the exterior of my apartment building? Should it freak me out that I count going to fetch the mail as a “big day out”? Should my boyfriend be concerned that my first question when he gets home at night is, “What’s out like … out there,” a little quaver in my voice, a scared glance at the door, and my bible clutched with little varicosed hands? (Ok, now I’m exaggerating. I’ll reign it in.)

I’m not worried or concerned. It’s just that, despite the fact that I now live in Los Angeles, The Place Where Seasons Happen To Other People, I really am a Seattleite, and any sane Seattleite will tell you that once November rolls around, you stay inside. You’ve collected your nuts and berries all summer and fall, and now it’s time to hibernate with your carbohydrates, books, and significant other/vibrator.

Never mind the fact that it’s sunny and 60° F outside. In the land of Ariel, we’re going to pretend we can hear the reassuring fingertips of rain tapping on the roof. Never mind that there’s an apartment between the roof and me. Just let’s pretend that it’s misty and gray and cold and mildewy. That long sweaters and thick socks are required. That you can smell the leaves becoming soil outside. That you need to drink hot spiced cider or sangria to stay warm.