It's frickin' freezing. Everyday I think about the following bit of trivia as I walk from my office to the train...
Question: At what temperature are degrees Fahrenheit and Celsius equal?
I walk along and I wonder if we'll get there...it certainly feels like we might. Then I make it to the train...that warm and gloriously quiet place where you can close your eyes and forget where you're at if it weren't for the heavy cloud of Old Spice and wisps of coffee breath snapping you back to reality. Not to mention the inappropriate touching. A day doesn't go by where I don't straighten-up suddenly and ask myself, "did that old lady just grab my ass? or was it an accident?"
Long story short: My body certainly hasn't yet adjusted to the Northern Virginia winter.
Case in point, we went to watch the Redskins play the Saints on Sunday (free club level seats, sucka). Although it was an awesome game, it was so difficult to pay attention with the chill that ran through my soul. The topper was the frosty $9 beer spilled on my lap by the one who shares a bank account with me, but shall remain nameless. $9?! C'mon! I went into the bathroom, stripped to my skivvies, and sucked the beer from the soiled fabric. These are not the actions of a lush; In these trying economic times, ideas like that are called "thrifty."
Now, I love football. Love. football. It's close to a perfect sport. But you can't just sit me in the cold for multiple weekends and expect me not become slightly conditioned to hate the game. This is why I'm forgoing this weekend's trip to Philadelphia with Seth for the Army v. Navy contest.
I was raised in Illinois. There, 0-15 degrees is a bit nippy, so you may want to grab a coat and hat. 15-30 degrees? You can and should still grill outside. 30-45 degrees? I can finally wear flip flops again. And 45+ degrees is a reason for celebration. We'd break out the slip n' slide and play lawn darts. What in the hell is wrong with me? Will I ever toughen up again?