I just returned from a brief trip to the “old country,” and if I ever needed confirmation of my decision to move here, I sure got it. Eighteen months ago I made one of the most momentous decisions of my life when I pulled up my stakes after a lifetime in New Jersey and headed west. I had naturally weighed the pros and cons. On the one hand, I had my friends, a solid reputation, a going business, great bagels and pizza. On the other hand, Malibu offered me perfect weather. It was a no brainer. I moved here, and I have not regretted it one day since.
A friend asked me rather incredulously, “Are you saying weather is more important than friendship?” “Trumps it every time,” I replied.
Back on the East Coast the weather was hellacious. In case you don’t know what that means, try like hell. If you think you have not led an exemplary life and might end up down below for your afterlife, you should visit New Jersey in July. You might very well be motivated to change your behavior.
The weather folk reported the temperature at 97 or 99 degrees depending upon where you chose to be deep fried, and then added, “With the humidity it feels well above 100 degrees,” as if I can tell the difference between 99 and 104 degrees. In either instance, sweat glands I didn’t know I had were working overtime.
If you like tight fitting clothes, this climate is perfect for you. A shirt practically melts on you it is so horrific. There were times I actually wished I were a fish so I could be in water 24 hours a day. I would go from an air conditioned building into an air conditioned car, but the worst part of it was waiting for the car to cool off. If a heavyweight fighter stayed in a car without ac for more than a few minutes, he could exit a featherweight.
The night I returned home to Malibu, I opened the windows, turned on the ceiling fan, and slept comfortably in my 64 degree bedroom. It is a joy to be home in paradise.
