So here we are in the deep
freeze dungeon of mid-January where exposed skin can freeze in five minutes.
The cold bears down upon us like a giant lead blanket and it will not be moved.
Cars left too long outside
in this abominable deep freeze either don’t start at all, or if plugged in do
begrudgingly turn over and then bump along on frozen square tires reminiscent of
a “Looney Tunes” cartoon or a Hillbilly movie.
Mad dashes from the nice
warm house to the garage while holding one’s breath are common.Wiping my dripping nose blob
with my mitt less hand and then reaching for the metal garage door handle,
which also is at -44C, well, that’s just stupid.
Standing there immobilized
and wondering if CAA covers my predicament also is brainless, as is thinking
warm spit will help remove my welded fingers.
Forcibly peeling said
fingers from cold metal reminded me of how painful it was the first and only
time I ripped wax strips off my upper lip.
My moustache, now otherwise
invisible to the viewing public thanks to facial hair bleach, suddenly
reappears in this hellish cold as a frosted hairy mass during the mad dash from
where I park the car at work and remains until all the men in the building have
passed me in the hallway at the coffee room. Nice.
The deep-freeze dungeon of
January calls to mind the (kick my butt now) question, “why didn’t I book that
holiday to Cuba when I had the chance?”
In another monumental lapse
of judgment in this lead blanket cold, as I think up ways to burn off the five
pounds I’ve gained over the Christmas holidays, I decide to go for a run in my
snowshoes down the creek bed.
My face wrapped in scarves
with a slit for eyes, I broke into a solid rhythmic jog, lifting one snowshoe above
the other.
Just around the bend I tripped over the twigs sticking out of the
ice at a beaver house and did a face plant landing in a contorted mess at the
base of the hut. Smarting and ranting, I hoped the heavy “thwack” heard by my
nemesis inside the twig tent, as my poundage landed there, would spook them
into pulling up stakes. Somehow I doubt it.
By the time I untangled my
snowshoes and realigned my spine, the wolves had started to close in for a
mid-day snack. However, when I stood up to reveal my steam-frozen headpiece
complete with icicles from all the heavy breathing I’d been doing in an effort
to untangle myself, the carnivores turned and ran like whelping puppies.
The only thing I can think
of that feels better because of this forsaken deep freezing cold is the
blistering hot shower taken after my cold-air escapades.
Standing there in the tub as
my skin turned fire engine red from toe to crown was heavenly, until it was
time to get out and I realized I’d forgotten to replace my bath towel.
I opened
the bathroom door and sprinted buck naked and sopping wet to the towel shelf.
To cop a sentence from Kerry
Lynn Dell’s blog “Montana For Real”—“Have you ever stepped onto an icy sidewalk
felt both feet fly up in the air and crashed onto the back of your head?”
That holiday on a Cuban
beach looked quite ideal from my prone position on the kitchen floor.
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