Cold reality of my January escapades

So here we are in the deep freeze dungeon of mid-January, when exposed skin can freeze in five minutes.
The cold bears down upon us like a giant lead blanket and it will not be moved.
Cars left too long outside in this abominable deep freeze either don’t start at all or, if plugged in, do begrudgingly turn over and then bump along on frozen square tires reminiscent of a “Looney Tunes” cartoon or a hillbilly movie.
Mad dashes from the nice warm house to the garage while holding one’s breath are common. Wiping my dripping nose blob with my mitt-less hand and then reaching for the metal garage door handle, which also is at minus-44 C, well, that’s just stupid.
Standing there immobilized and wondering if CAA covers my predicament also is brainless, as is thinking warm spit will help remove my welded fingers.
Forcibly peeling said fingers from cold metal reminded me of how painful it was the first and only time I ripped wax strips off my upper lip.
My moustache, now otherwise invisible to the viewing public thanks to facial hair bleach, suddenly reappears in this hellish cold as a frosted hairy mass during the mad dash from where I park the car at work and remains until all the men in the building have passed me in the hallway at the coffee room.
Nice.
The deep-freeze dungeon of January calls to mind the (kick my butt now) question, “Why didn’t I book that holiday to Cuba when I had the chance?”
In another monumental lapse of judgment in this lead blanket cold, as I think up ways to burn off the five pounds I gained over the Christmas holidays, I decided to go for a run on my snowshoes down the creek bed.
My face wrapped in scarves with a slit for eyes, I broke into a solid rhythmic jog, lifting one snowshoe above the other. Just around the bend, I tripped over the twigs sticking out of the ice at a beaver house and did a face plant, landing in a contorted mess at the base of the hut.
Smarting and ranting, I hoped the heavy “thwack” heard by my nemesis inside the twig tent, as my poundage landed there, would spook them into pulling up stakes. Somehow I doubt it.
By the time I untangled my snowshoes and realigned my spine, the wolves had started to close in for a midday snack. However, when I stood up to reveal my steam-frozen headpiece complete with icicles from all the heavy breathing I’d been doing in an effort to untangle myself, the carnivores turned and ran like whelping puppies.
The only thing I can think of that feels better because of this forsaken deep-freezing cold is the blistering hot shower taken after my cold air escapades.
Standing there in the tub as my skin turned fire engine red from toe to crown was heavenly—until it was time to get out and I realized I’d forgotten to replace my bath towel.
I opened the bathroom door and sprinted buck naked and sopping wet to the towel shelf.
To cop a sentence from Kerry Lynn Dell’s blog “Montana For Real”: “Have you ever stepped onto an icy sidewalk, felt both feet fly up in the air, and crashed onto the back of your head?”
That holiday on a Cuban beach looked quite ideal from my prone position on the kitchen floor.

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