It's cold outside. Happens like that in January in New York. We trudge around all bundled up in bulky coats forgetting there's a form under there that closely resembles a body. Right about now I become one with the wool, blend seamlessly with the chenille sweater and the fuzzy socks sealed to my previously pedicured toes. Winter makes me wonder why I live here. Winter brings me an unending craving of all things warm.
If I look on the bright side, (and there always IS one, right?) I have a home to brave the elements where the heating system works just fine. And if past history counts for anything, soon enough I'll find myself fussing over the high humidity and seeking out the nearest air conditioner.
Yet, the thermometer's always greener on the other side.
This morning my middle finger is adorned with duct tape. Not some weird fashion statement but an attempt to rid my appendage of a stubborn wart that took up residency about one month ago near my knuckle. I'm fairly certain that in a month or two it'll be gone. But for the time being, I remain wrapped, layered, covered up - hidden and healing. I am a human onion, longing to be peeled.
George Herbert said "Every mile is two in winter." Lace up your faux-fur lined booties people. And walk on.
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