It's cold outside, and I have been cold all day.
In bed I was at the soft, comfortable center of the universe. Then morning spit me out into the icy blue day and I have been cold ever since.
Writing about the weather usually signals that the author has nothing big going on in his or her life, much as talking about the weather with a stranger in the elevator means you have nothing else to offer them but awkward silence. But other times it's just bleeping cold outside. Cold enough that Katy Perry put a whole shirt on. Cold enough that the weather report in the paper just shows a picture of an Eskimo holding a gun to his head.
I can do this. In an age of remote car starters, heated boots, and North Face fleece, I stand a decent chance of seeing next spring. What I might never understand, is how people settled these parts before Thinsulate-lined boxers. Why Minnesota, unless you have no knowledge of Florida? My only thought is that they came in the Summer, and then the snow trapped them in. I know that's what happened to us.
I Heart You.
