In December it will snow more than it has in 60 years. You will stare out your apartment window thinking, Yes, real weather. This is why I moved away. You will trudge to work listening to the Peanuts Christmas album and everything around you will seem so very quiet, softened by snow. You will think of great swathes of marshmallow.

In February, still huddled next to the smelly kerosene heater you are trapped with in the living room, never venturing into the other, unheated rooms to do more than quickly pee or wash dishes, you will wonder how long this can possibly last. It won’t be snowing, but a fierce and ugly wind will pummel you on your bike ride home, sometimes combined with giant spattering drops of rain which you cannot protect yourself against because it is not humanly possible to hold your umbrella upright in that wind. You will attempt it once; your shoulder will ache for a week before you realize why. You will, on a fairly regular basis, curse the wind as well as Ibuki-san, the mountain from whence it came.

In March you will take a wonderful, glorious trip to Los Angeles, where the sun is as yellow and sweet as a Meyer lemon. Everyone there will complain about the unseasonable cold. You will chortle, thinking of your apartment, remembering the first time you saw your breath inside. While you are away, it will snow in Japan. In March. Snow. You won’t want to go back.

In April everyone will tell you how wonderful April is, the cherry blossoms, the cherry blossoms. But during the week the trees are in bloom, the wind will blow and the rain will pour and then everyone will tell you how the cherry blossoms are all going to fall down in the rain. You will scowl your way to your first hanami, cherry-blossom-viewing party, because it is cold and the sky is gray, making all your pictures of cherry blossoms look dull. You will curse Ibuki-san, just for good measure.

In May the people who told you April was wonderful will now say May is the best month, really. The first day of May will be warm and perfect. You will wear short sleeves and relish the sensation of sweating. During Golden Week, you will have a solitary picnic in the sun next to a pond, reading magazines and loving the world and its inhabitants. But then: rain. Gloom. One day after another, broken by only the occasional weak-sunned day. And now there will be nothing to look forward to, that’s it, all the presents have been opened, because June is the rainy season and July and August are horrible, hot and sticky and dotted with typhoons.

You will be demoralized by this weather, the prospect of another month and a half without sun. You won’t sleep well. You won’t be able to write. You will sit in your apartment, staring out at the soggy day, thinking about how much you miss your boyfriend and how nothing is right with the world. It’s the weather. The weather.

You will decide there can be nothing better than spending the rest of your days under a Meyer lemon sun. The thought of this reward, like the promise of a lovely piece of cake if you’ll take just one bite of your brussel sprouts, please honey, will propel you through another year of weather. This No-Thank-You Bite of weather.