I’d like to preface this rant/moan with a request. Those of you from Minnesota, or Upstate New York, or Nunavut Territory who like to play the ol’ “you think you got it bad?”-game? Let’s band together right now, and commiserate rather than engaging in oneupsmanship. The bastards in Tucson have it good enough without us fighting amongst ourselves for who has it worst.
Every year around this time I’m reacquainted with what “cold” really means. Because, you see, there’s a difference between freezing, icy windshield, better-wear-a-scarf weather and this. When it’s hovering around 0F in the morning, the feeling is entirely different from those balmy 28F days. The wind goes through normal clothing. The difference between this and the freezing point is about the same as the difference between freezing and room temperature. I know someone who moved here from California. She complained about the “brrr-my-hands-are-cold” weather, so I don’t know how she’ll cope with “brrr-better-go-chip-the-frozen-bodies-off-the-sidewalk” sorta weather.
The smokers outside the office are growing fewer, and they huddle up with looks on their face that seem to suggest that the end is near, but maybe it’s not so bad anyway. The social “cigarette break” of summer has changed into “risking life for one’s addiction”, much the same way a heroin user risks violence and overdose every time they shoot up.
Every year I start congratulating myself too early. Thinking, “Well, looks like I can stand a little bit of cold weather!” It’s funny how the snow has turned from a beautiful decoration into icy needles that plunge from the sky and seem to stab at your soft, reddened skin. There’s ice on the inside of the windows of my house right now. Even the cat, with her inveterate desire to get outside and kill things right now (she’s an indoor cat, you know, safer that way) has become philosophical. She sits by the heater and looks at me as if to say that hope has left the world, and she’s only hanging on long enough to get her affairs in order since there’s nothing left to live for.
Really, I don’t see much left to live for either. The cold has permeated everything; ice grows over the hearts of men while the women walk down the street weeping, their tears turning into salty icicles hanging from the ends of their noses. The children are abandoned to huddle up for warmth and spend the last few minutes of their short lives praying for the sweet release of death.
I don’t know that I’ll be able to continue writing this. The ice growing on me has made my fingers clumsy, and I must conserve the last of my energy to try burning my bed for a few more hours of warmth. Should I survive until spring, and tunnel out, I’ll see you all again. Until then, pray for us in the northland.
