How cold is it?
It’s so cold outside.
“How cold is it?”
It’s so cold, I couldn’t go for a run, or even a walk, without turning right around and going back inside.
It’s so cold it was not a one-pants, not a two-pants, but a three-pants day.
It’s so cold that my house window was iced shut.
It’s so cold that Cowdog Creatives’ car refused to open its door and afford me shelter.
It’s so cold that I could lean my weight against the bitter wind and lose my eyesight at the very same time.
It’s so cold that if I opened my mouth to talk, the wind on my teeth felt like biting ice cream.
It’s so cold that work sent an email blast giving us tips on how to dress warm. Apparently layering is key?? Do I wear my waterproof jacket on the inside or the outside layer? Are gloves a good idea? Still confused on how to dress warm, need more help.
And it’s just. Getting. Colder.
When I was a kid, I loved the cold. I was just brimming with vitality, and layered with brown fat, a little living toaster. I always warmed my friends’ hands for them. My resistance to cold was a point of pride. But I’m just getting older and wimpier with each passing day. I prefer bed to everything. Bed is warmest. If I must leave the house, you’d better believe I’ll be wearing my hat and scarf and gloves and several outfits.
I blame the cats. They sleep on my feet every night and keep me warm, thus raising my heat threshold. In the words of every old man I’ve read about but never met, I’m gettin’ soft. Need to start sleeping on the floor, it’s good for the back.
Oh God I just aged again didn’t I?? It happens when you stop paying attention!
I tell Cowdog Creatives that we must never let errant gas escape us without the other calling us out on it. I don’t want belches and farts to stop being funny. I don’t mind the wrinkles and I really don’t mind the cold but please, don’t let the farts stop being funny.
Fresh Hell 