Frozen

On many blustery, subzero, winter mornings when I leave for work, I meet my neighbor walking her dog. I am shivering in my car while frantically trying to crank more heat out of the heater. She is hiking down the side of the windswept, country road looking very happy. Her dog looks happy, too. How does she do this?

I was born a winter wimp, and I envy all those hearty souls who actually enjoy freezing weather.

Another friend tells me, “It’s all in the clothes. Put on enough layers”, she advises, “and anyone can join the ranks of the hearty”. But, I must admit, I’ve always preferred taking clothes off to putting them on. I dislike feeling trapped in a prison of garments.

What is enjoyable about having snow pants so fat that you feel like you have one giant leg? How do you blow your nose when your hands are made nonfunctional by three pairs of mittens? How can you smile when your blue lips are frozen in place?

I’m obviously never going to be a model for L.L. Bean unless it’s a “cocoa around the fire in the lodge” type photo. And I’m sincerely grateful that our cats wisely eschew daily walks.

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