Chill

I like the winter.

I like watching the snow fall, I like curling up under a warm blanket with a good book, a cup of rich hot cocoa (laced with a dash of Frangelico, if you please) and settling in for the night while I listen to the wind outside.

I like seeing the world covered in a blanket of white, looking clean and new. Its almost as if everything that was dirty is suddenly clean, anything that was broken down and disused suddenly has new life.

I love the pine trees around my home right after a big snowfall, when the branches are covered with snow, which falls off or blows away in the wind over the subsequent days.

I like the sun (when we do see it, which isn't often) bouncing a dazzling reflection off of the snow, so bright that sunglasses are just a minor help, looking like tiny diamonds scattered across the ground.

I like when the cold in the air steals your breath away, shocking cold, even though you knew it was cold outside, you're still surprised by the intensity of it.

But.

Somehow, it seems as each winter passes, I'm affected more by the cold each year.

I dress in layers all winter long; yep, I wear long underwear and I don't give a shit who knows it. Being warm is far more important. That extra layer or sometimes two when it is particularly bitter, makes a big difference. If I didn't tell you, you'd never know, anyway, because it is thin enough to hide under even my tightest jeans.

I learned how to layer properly in Sweden; where I lived, just off of Lake Malaren, the wind was biting and bitter, especially when you got close to the lake shore. The whole town is on the shore, practically. I learned the importance of a scarf in keeping warm; hence, perhaps, the obsessive scarf-knitting this winter.

This winter hasn't been particularly bitterly cold; I remember colder ones. But I don't remember being so cold myself in winters past. The only time my toes are warm is right when I get out of bed in the morning, or right after stepping out of a hot shower. Otherwise, they're like little blocks of ice.


Last night, after work and dinner and even a little time spent writing, I changed out of my corporate slave clothes into jammies, thick sock, slippers, and a robe, then wrapped myself in a blanket before beginning to work on my latest hat, a cable-knit dazzling white, made with super-bulky yarn. DH watched me wrap the blanket securely around my legs, and raised an eyebrow over the robe, which is very heavy.

"Cold?" he asked, sarcastically.

"Does it show?" I asked, snarky.

He laughed, and chuckled again later when I pulled another blanket out to wrap up in.

Jeebus, I'm cold.