Snow Blows

Oh my sweet Rock Hudson on a platter, it is cold. I live in the mild Pacific Northwest, and it is in the goll darn 20s. There is snow on the ground, and wind blowing right through coats and hats, and ice along all the smooth surfaces as far as the eye can see, just waiting to trip you and kiss you right on your assbone. It's just not right. Not right at all.

As I've mentioned before, I am, in the words of Rick James, cold-blooded. I have been known to shiver uncontrollably in 50 degree weather. Honestly. My teeth chatter and the whole nine yards. When this happens, people look at me and ask "Wait, weren't you born in the Midwest? Didn't you spend most of your life there? How did you survive?"

Yes, I was born in the Midwest. I did spend most of my life there. And I'll tell you how I survived. I was COLD. Six months out of the year, I was freezing my knickers off. In fact, this is probably the only reason I got any play with the boys back then. Believe me, if your knickers freeze right off of you, you get dates pretty easy. Har har. My point is that my body, it just isn't designed for cold. My parents come from a tropical paradise, for Cher's sake, and I am convinced that I am just built for 75 degrees and my body is just incapable of forgiving me for sub-60-temperatures. I have this memory of walking home from the school bus at age 7 or 8, bundled up like a wool burrito, and staring at the snow covered ground and trying to visualize fire in order to make it home. I also have a memory of going to high school and sitting in my theatre rehearsal in the auditorium, wearing two pairs of tights, long underwear, jeans, two shirts, a hoodie, and a sweater, and sitting on my gloved hands and trying to breathe calmly and think warm thoughts. My friend Michelle came over to me and said that it was time to go put our costumes on, and I flat out refused. I was not going to peel any layers off of me in order to change, no ma'am. The only way anyone would get me to do it was by letting me change my clothes in the boiler room. Yes, the boiler room was my dressing room. Listen, J-Lo may demand to bathe in Evian and Madonna may require an 8 jillion thread count, but this here diva has her standards too. Only the best for me, kids. The boiler room. And I was STILL COLD in there.

So this is why, whenever I get to miss the Midwest, I think about the cold and the ice and the horrifying winds, and I think ok, at least I don't have to deal with that any more. Except on days like today, when I DO. And then I get irrational grumpy feelings, where I say things like "This is SEATTLE. This snow is being so UNFAIR!" or "Mild winters my ASS!" or, as I did at 4am this morning when I woke up and saw the snow falling: "Doesn't the sky CARE that I'm DYING?" Did I mention that I used to work in the theatre? I know I can be so understated that it's easy to forget.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl