POSTED IN | 11:59 PM
I came out of work, circa 9 p.m. and wondered why my body heat was escaping me like blood from a terminal wound. The dry air heaved densely into my chest, momentarily freezing surrounding tissue on each of its dark descents.
I pondered this respiratory assault keenly, wondering its origin and stern intensity.
Then, I happened upon a lowly thermometer, keeper of mercury's soothsaying and read the numeral utterance:
TWENTY FOUR BELOW ZERO.
Egad. Bloody cold, my chillens.
So, I brushed off the snow from my pious windshield that so faithfully bore the ice scraper onslaught while my mitts neared serious frostbite.
Still getting a grip on this real winter stuff, it seems, Jemima. A whole different ballgame, to be certain.
And I miss my 4Runner. Observation would have it that the White Wolf isn't so keen in 12 inches of snowfall on poorly plowed streets.
Perhaps Mr. Sandman also has a few spirit-warming nightcaps in his bag of dreamy tricks...