The Big Chill is no longer just a weepy movie from the 80s. It’s my life for 24 hours as an “Historic Polar Vortex” spends the day in Pennsylvania (and about 20 other states). The weather people gyrate and circle the freezing temps in my area on their multi-colored computer maps whilst excitedly telling me that the temp is 12, but it feels like -20.
It’s like listening to wine fanatics who can tell you where the grapes in every bottle came from. Unfortunately, my Dr. Pepper palate isn’t sophisticated enough to tell the difference between cabernet and merlot (or if those are even two different types of wine). And I’m not ashamed to admit that my somewhat-sensitive-but-otherwise-normal human skin can’t tell the difference between 12 degrees and -20. At some point, it becomes moot to discuss the actual number, right? Can’t it just be, “If you go outside for more than five minutes, you will freeze to death” and leave it at that?
The weather outside is frightful and a fire would be delightful, right next to the bed because I don’t want to get out from underneath my layers of covers. It’s too cold. Even for me, Ms. Winter Lover. I said I love Winter. I didn’t say I like North Pole Winter. Even the penguins and polar bears are like, “Seriously? Dude, I have breath-sicles. It’s too cold.”