I walked out the door at 6:30 one morning last week in running shorts and a tank top, a far stretch from my deep winter outfit of tights, leggings, sweats, sports bra, turtle neck, jacket, gloves, hat. I bounded down my steps, the screams of weather men in my ears, “highs of 78 degrees, 82 degrees, 83!” Spring has arrived! At the end of the porch steps, my leg muscles began to harden; halfway down the path, my fingers stopped moving altogether, the blood leaving them significantly colder than the rest of my body…my brain decided to reject this information. By the end of the path, I had completely frozen in place. As my brain struggled for comprehension, slowly freezing itself, I recalled the full weather report, “low of 28 overnight, rising to a high of 78 in the late afternoon, 82 on Friday and up to 83 on Saturday.”
The sun hadn’t yet broken the horizon. I was outside in 28 degree weather in shorts and a tank top. I cracked the ice forming on my lips and tongue enough to yell “Ben, help!” It came out as only a squeak. I stayed frozen to that spot until 7:45 when the temperature finally broke 32. Stiffly entering the bedroom, dripping melted ice from my hands, legs, forehead, my husband cracked an eyelid at me, “You took a long run this morning, huh? You’re all sweaty too,” rolled over and went back to sleep. I gave him my worst fire-y glare but even that seemed to have frozen. Bastard. This is clearly his fault.