Dear friends,
On the 12th day of this month of Thanksgiving, I am grateful for the nuclear furnace that lives inside me.
At least that’s what Mr. Mom says — that I am a walking, talking thermodynamics experiment. At night, I radiate heat in bed like a glowing ember, which you might imagine makes snuggling with me a winning proposition for a man with long, frigid limbs like Mr. Mom.
It was a balmy 17 degrees during this morning’s run. No big in my book. Two layers on top and one on bottom and I’m good to go. I don’t break out the big guns of warmth (triple layers and a face mask) until much closer to zero.
The winter before I left Mayberry was an exceptionally cold one. After running through a week of sub-zero temps, I just happened to sleep in on the morning Mayberry set a state record cold temperature at -31 degrees. I’m still bemoaning the fact that I ran faithfully that frigid winter but can’t tell my grandkids I ran on the coldest day ever.
I’m not sure, but I think my Native American blood is particularly suited to cold weather. I like that explanation better than the layer of maternal blubber which I am also certain provides strong insulating properties.
By the way, after this morning’s run, I made an unexpected stop at a local coffee shop. I was the lone patron on this dark, cold morning and the college student/barista looked especially glad to see me. As I took off my hat and gloves and ordered my specialty latte, he noticed my cold weather gear and began telling me how cold he had felt this morning while scraping the frost off his windshield without gloves.
Three decades and several good jobs have separated me from my peanut-butter-and-ramen-noodles existence, so I offered the boy my gloves. (They’re black, unisex, and made by North Face, a leading outfitter.) He declined, and I said goodbye hoping I didn’t embarrass him. I just acutely remember my 20s and the perpetual feeling of being a day late and dollar short. I also remember the feeling of luxury and privilege that came with owning a home with a garage and saying goodbye forever to cold-weather windshield scrapings.
With gratitude {for warmth, in all forms},
Joan, who loves to reminds her children that when she lived in Boston she daily walked ONE MILE EACH WAY through heavy snow to the subway station
Debt of Gratitude 