My walk home last night was cold. Very cold.
I knew it would be, because it's now habit to let a big, long gush of air rush out my mouth and predict the weather for me. If I can barely see it, I know the trek will be tolerable. But when I can see so much that I feel like a train, I try to brace myself for the worst.
Walking south of the Wilk, I notice that the houses on the mountain look like little gingerbread houses; it should be on a Christmas postcard sent somewhere warm and snowless. Then some guy says, "Good evening" to me. I know he was being polite, but honestly who says good evening? The British, butlers, and Count Dracula.
The BYU Smokestack intrigues me. I watch the steam rise from it and wish for the zillionth time that I had some rappelling equipment to climb that tower. Back to how cold I am. This, for some reason, makes me think of Russia circa whenever the Anastasia movie was made. Would I wear those funny hats and do that funny dance? Probably, because it sound so much warmer than I am now. My lower jaw is moving up and down faster than a Camaro on hydrolics.
I pass J Dawgs, and wonder if they'd let me stand for a few minutes in exchange for my iPod, or my left hand (since I'll obviously lose it to frostbite anyway). Then I continue on my path home. I always choose the side of the street that's icy because the sun never really hits it; I've been walking this path for more than a year, and yet I still can't get it right. No falls today, good day.
The last few blocks home, thinking of warm soup keeps me going. I get my keys ready 5 minute early so there's no delay in getting in. I can practically feel the warm lights, and the foot tall tinsel tree in our living room.
The point is it was cold.
(It's also the first day of December and I love Christmas and I just ordered this and am really excited to make candies and give out presents and hugs).