It’s five degrees outside right now and it's not right. My fireplace and head-to-toe fleece aren’t even putting a dent in the icy chill that has settled into my bones. This morning, I was walking across the Congress Street bridge and -- with the wind whipping across the Fort Point Channel -- it actually hurt. I was braving the elements in my fiercely lame black winter coat, black mittens, a black hat and several layers of sparkly black scarves piled up around my head. Only my eyes were visible. I looked like a Shiite Muslim. Didn’t matter. No amount of creative layering would have helped; I am very indoorsy and do not have a closet full of Patagonia at my disposal. I might as well have been standing naked atop Mt. Washington during a blizzard.
Another indoorsy-looking feller who was walking in front of me on the bridge -- hatless and gloveless (and clueless) -- was literally screaming out in pain with every wind gust. “Sweet Jesus!” “Are you fucking kidding me!” “Motherfucker!” It was pretty funny actually, and I wanted to laugh but I was too cold and miserable. I was also too focused on putting one foot in front of the other, afraid I’d freeze in place if I stopped moving.
A few weeks ago, it was so balmy outside that my daffodils were starting to come up. Now, the front yard is a frozen tundra, and my burgeoning daffodils are a freeze pop garden.
And now, I've just swaddled myself in a down comforter and it’s not working.