One of many delightful things I have discovered in Iowa is 50° weather. Here's the thing about 50° weather: On the first day it hits 50°, some time in the spring (or, sometimes, a freak day in the middle of January), it's a miracle. I walk outside in my short sleeves, and I'm not cold. And when it's been months of cold, that feels like a miracle.
On the first day that it hits 50°, some time in autumn (or a freak day in August), it means I can finally wear my hoodie, or layer my shirts, or tall socks. I go outside and love the chill on my face, because it feels so good to feel cold.
And, yeah, I get those feelings sometimes at 45° or 55°, and when it's 50° and dreary outside I might not be so ecstatic. But, to me, 50° means change, it means something new is coming. Even when it's something I've seen before, by the time it comes around again, I feel like I've forgotten.
What's funny about all this is that I really do feel cold when it's 50° in Autumn, and I really do feel warm when it's 50° in spring. I'm not actually thinking "comared to that, this is warm." I am simply warm. Or cold.
Last summer, I spent about 3-4 weeks working on losing weight. I started at 212, and made it down to 200 before I stopped. And when I started, 212 was monsterously fat. I couldn't stand to wear anything but the baggiest of t-shirts. At 200 I felt like I had made a difference, and I felt good showing off.
Today, I am only barely past 212, but because I started at 217, it doesn't seem so monsterous. The way I look right now feels like an accomplishment, even though six months ago it was a failure.
I guess what I'm trying to say is: context. It matters.