Despite what the calendar tells me, winter is indeed here. I can tell because I now wear sweatshirts to bed and hats that cover my ears when I’m sitting inside. Baxter suddenly decides that I’m his best friend though I suspect he is just using me for my body heat, however limited it may be. My fingers cramp up when I’m typing or reading, and my feet are constantly cold, no matter how many layers I put on them. I dread working out because it means I have to leave the warmer region of the couch and go towards the porch door to my yoga mat, where the cold air seeps through and hugs me like an overenthusiastic church-greeter.
Going outside is like opening a freezer door; the air smacks you right in the face. It takes 10-20 minutes for me to feel the car’s heating system and I can finally unclench all the muscles in my body. Chris, who somehow is always warm, becomes less of a much-loved husband and more of a necessary heating pad that I must maintain contact with at all times, even (or especially) if it means invading his personal space.
I love the Christmas season, but for some reason, this year feels like the coldest year I’ve ever experienced.