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It’s cold. It’s stinking cold. See what I mean?
I was driving to work the other morning and saw a penguin standing on the corner with his hands in his pockets and running in place to try to stay warm. Fine, it might have just been Brent Poffenberger in a tuxedo after a long night out, but he was definitely cold. And, yeah, looking back at it, I guess I could have stopped to see if it was indeed Poffenberger and if he needed a ride, but, again, it was cold. Stopping and picking him up would have required me to open my door and let that sweet heat out of my car and subject myself to ...
But I digress.
My point is that it’s been mind-numbingly cold for this stage of December. Winter does not officially arrive until next Tuesday, but it seems that it sent out a little early RSVP that it is in fact heading our way, and it’s coming with a vengeance. Yes, boys and girls, Santa is indeed flying our way soon, but he might be wearing Uggs and covered in a Snuggie when he slides down that chimney.
I know I have pretty thin blood, especially when compared to my good friend Shaun Lambert — a native Alaskan and proud member of the Inuit tribe. But Shaun was hesitant leaving the office the other night. He rides a bike to and from work every day, and you could see him contemplating the intricacies of maneuvering his bicycle down slippery streets with a frozen face housing the eyes that were supposed to be leading the way.
Part of me wanted to offer to stick around later and give him a ride home. Another part of me wanted to go out to my car, drive it around to a secluded part of the parking lot where Shaun wouldn’t see me and follow him home from a distance while laughing at his plight. Yet another part of me just wanted to go home and get in my comfy clothes and take in the warmth of home.
Yeah, the last part won out in the end. He’s been in 70-below-zero weather before. He’d be fine. Probably. I hoped.
Regardless, I did indeed go home and quickly changed into my sweats and slippers, eager to enjoy a quiet night in the warmth of my home while trying to fight off this two-week cold that has kicked my backside worse than Susan Lyons will soon when she sees how much I spent on freelancers over the course of the year.
Yeah, hopefully she doesn’t read this for a few weeks.
My fears of Susan aside (lots of digressions this week — must be the cold medicine), there is something extremely comforting about getting home and hunkering in when it’s cold outside. Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to get home in the summertime, too. But something about summer makes you want to get out and do something — anything, just so it’s outside. Summer just requires too much energy for my taste.
Winter, though, now that’s a season for the perpetually lazy. Start a fire, eat some comfort food and fall asleep on the couch with the dogs laying by my feet. Now that’s living.
However, too cold is still too cold. When it’s so cold outside that your house just won’t get warm no matter what you do — that’s too cold. When you have to slam down your tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwich because you’re afraid it will succumb to the climate — that’s too cold. When you wake up in the middle of the night because two dogs have slipped under your comforter like canine ninjas and have seemingly come to the conclusion that the best way to beat the cold is to steal your body warmth — that’s too cold. And, well, you’ve probably spoiled your dogs too much.
Surely, this weather can’t last much longer, right?
Oh, it will. And stop calling me Shirley.
Sorry. Just not ready to let go of Leslie Nielsen quite yet.