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Cold.
The season plods along in its appointed course as we, the people, twist ourselves into tight balls to guard against the bitter cold. We hunch over, swinging our arms, trying to ignore the pain of breathing in the cold. Noses turn red, fingers go numb, lungs burn.
We have reached the point in the season where things become shabby. Coats lose buttons, get dirty, their linings rip. Gloves and mittens develop worn and threadbare spots. Hats are mutating into strange shapes, the inevitable result of being jammed tight onto heads day after day. Boots and shoes are stained with salt and mud. Purse and bag straps begin to crack and fray, the material stiff and unyielding in the cold.
Cabin fever is taking hold. It's too cold for most to play outside, but there is still the desire to go skating, play hockey, ice fish, or ski. People curse the bright days, longing for cloud cover to trap in the heat. The cold has sapped all available moisture. What snow there is grainy and dry, sounding like styrofoam when it's walked upon. Throats are scratchy and rough, resisting all attempts at hydration. Skin defies moisturizers and cracks and peels with abandon.
The cold is a physical presence, both menacing and indifferent. It pays no attention to the people, but it will kill us if we let it.
Baby, it's cold outside.
We have reached the point in the season where things become shabby. Coats lose buttons, get dirty, their linings rip. Gloves and mittens develop worn and threadbare spots. Hats are mutating into strange shapes, the inevitable result of being jammed tight onto heads day after day. Boots and shoes are stained with salt and mud. Purse and bag straps begin to crack and fray, the material stiff and unyielding in the cold.
Cabin fever is taking hold. It's too cold for most to play outside, but there is still the desire to go skating, play hockey, ice fish, or ski. People curse the bright days, longing for cloud cover to trap in the heat. The cold has sapped all available moisture. What snow there is grainy and dry, sounding like styrofoam when it's walked upon. Throats are scratchy and rough, resisting all attempts at hydration. Skin defies moisturizers and cracks and peels with abandon.
The cold is a physical presence, both menacing and indifferent. It pays no attention to the people, but it will kill us if we let it.
Baby, it's cold outside.
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(Also,I'm so glad I live in California. Brrrr.)
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Which means I probably won't be added back;)
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3 years at Wainwright? I'm so sorry. I've gotta say, no matter how bad it gets here, it beat three months of 30 below. Brrrrr. At least I can run when it's dumping down snow....