It bores even me to say it, but dang.
It’s always been cold.
As is common for my people at this time of year, I’ve clean forgotten the sodden heat of a Minneapolis summer; the brisk, clear skies of fall; the loamy, promising fragrance of a spring day.
All that is, and ever was, is the possibility of an icy death.
It was eight below zero at the bus stop this morning. I mention this not by way of bragging or inspiring your pity but simply so that I can then say this: It’s going to warm up over 40 degrees by Saturday, all the way to freezing.
And don’t think that we don’t get a perverse pleasure out of saying things like that, out of pointing out to lesser, softer beings, that we regularly experience 100-degree swings in and out of our comfort zones.
Because we do get a perverse pleasure out of saying things like that. This is what keeps us warm: the knowledge that we are special, if not in our ability to “keep on keeping on” then in our ability to meet the bright, hectic look in our fellow Minnesotans’ eyes as we clap each other on the back whilst declaring “Ha! Only nine more Mondays until spring!”
It is here where we shut our eyes, ever so briefly, and envision going home, whipping up a batch of brownie batter, and giving up, just laying in the tub hoping our absence at work goes unnoticed until the thaw.
It’s warming up 40 degrees this weekend.
Only nine more Mondays until spring.