![]() Even though we live in New York, a place where a cold snap or two a January is as predictable as being hosed by some unspeakably awful puddle of street juice slush by a car spinning through an intersection even though I’ve lived in this exact climate for every one of my thirty-I-don’t-want-to-talk-about-it years and even though I have the audacity to look forward to winter every sticky concrete-steaming summer, when I walk outside on that first 20-degree day and the wind gusts into my face and renders it hard to exhale, the very first thing I do is audibly holler in rage and disbelief, “WHAT THE WHAT?” I am nothing - as we joke when my sweet little son tries to clomp down the hallway in his dad’s massive boots and immediately falls on his tush - if not Harvard Material. ![]() Every year around this time - well into the winter season, but long after we found it charmingly brisk, as it is when you do googly-eyed things like ice skating around a sparkling tree at the holidays - we get some sort of brittle cold snap in the weather that catches me by surprise.
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