The temperature is dropping; and the number of articles of clothing I am now wearing on a regular basis render me invincible in a strip poker game, barring some funky, underhanded dealing.
Think of the opportunities.
People, I swear I am this close to turning on the furnace.
It’s a bit of sport we Minnesotans play, this “have you turned on your furnace yet” game. Derived from the pioneer pastime of “Hoozat wit de Hot Brick” (Scandinavian, I believe), the object is to fool yourself into believing that the cold is something you can control, maybe even avoid altogether.
Despite so many indications to the contrary, you can take my word for it: the pioneers were a silly people.
And so in an effort to regain the feeling in my fingertips, I’ve done what many cold-climate people have done before me.
I have taken a really hot bath. Ladies and gentlemen, my toes are pink, my fingers are nimble, and the end of my nose is dang-near room temperature.
I’m livin’ like rich people.
Of course, bathing, no matter how enjoyable, doesn’t replace the ever-increasing need to turn on the furnace; and once you’ve flipped that switch, well, you’ve opened a door to all manner of winter-related to-dos. The ice scraper hasn’t been seen since March; my six-year-old winter coat, a down-filled sleeping-bag of a coat with room for you and your closest friends, has mysteriously burst in a cloud of feathered exhaustion; and the words “Christmas list” have just popped, unbidden, into my mind.
If you need me, I’ll be in the bathtub.
Spare The Hotrod And Spoil The Child
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