Friday
1/12/04
Cold. Real Cold.
After making a rather silly decision this last weekend, I now know what true Cold is. I had thought I knew what cold was, but I turned out to be really, really, wrong.
Cold is not, for instance, forgetting to wear an extra sweater to an Islanders game. Likewise, cold is not waiting around for the school bus on a rainy December afternoon. And, perhaps most of all, cold is not shivering under the sheets while deciding if it’s worth sprinting out of bed for a pair of comfy socks.
No, real Cold is standing, simp that I am, at the top of the hill at Big Bear in the Poconos on Saturday morning wondering if it was, perhaps, a little too cold to send the lads skiing. It was six below zero with a stiff breeze working. Within literally five seconds the condensation on my mustache froze and got crunchy. Then the junk in my nose froze and got crunchy. Then my eyes stared watering, which is when I found out that it hurt my face to dab at the tears. A rather weak "Holy shit…" was about all I could manage before running for the lodge.
Once safely inside, the last damning piece of evidence that it was foolhardy to even consider sending the boys for lessons became apparent: despite the fact that it was well after nine in the morning on a beautiful sunny Saturday, there was only one other family there other than ourselves. One other foolish, foolish, family.
In the end, the weekend turned out to be a lot of fun; we hunkered down in our borrowed house and played family games and watched movies and gorged ourselves on junk food until the next day, which was warm enough to send the boys for those lessons. But never again will I tempt real Cold.
(And jeez, no wonder the U.S. is just lousy with Canadians; they obviously know better than to stick around up there. Brrr.)
( 1/9: We've waited just long enough to go skiing at Big Bear in the Poconos that we'll be getting the first real Arctic blast 'o the year. It seems that Saturday's high on the mountain is gonna be 0. That's right, 0. Wheeeee! )
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Cold. Real Cold.
After making a rather silly decision this last weekend, I now know what true Cold is. I had thought I knew what cold was, but I turned out to be really, really, wrong.
Cold is not, for instance, forgetting to wear an extra sweater to an Islanders game. Likewise, cold is not waiting around for the school bus on a rainy December afternoon. And, perhaps most of all, cold is not shivering under the sheets while deciding if it’s worth sprinting out of bed for a pair of comfy socks.
No, real Cold is standing, simp that I am, at the top of the hill at Big Bear in the Poconos on Saturday morning wondering if it was, perhaps, a little too cold to send the lads skiing. It was six below zero with a stiff breeze working. Within literally five seconds the condensation on my mustache froze and got crunchy. Then the junk in my nose froze and got crunchy. Then my eyes stared watering, which is when I found out that it hurt my face to dab at the tears. A rather weak "Holy shit…" was about all I could manage before running for the lodge.
Once safely inside, the last damning piece of evidence that it was foolhardy to even consider sending the boys for lessons became apparent: despite the fact that it was well after nine in the morning on a beautiful sunny Saturday, there was only one other family there other than ourselves. One other foolish, foolish, family.
In the end, the weekend turned out to be a lot of fun; we hunkered down in our borrowed house and played family games and watched movies and gorged ourselves on junk food until the next day, which was warm enough to send the boys for those lessons. But never again will I tempt real Cold.
(And jeez, no wonder the U.S. is just lousy with Canadians; they obviously know better than to stick around up there. Brrr.)
( 1/9: We've waited just long enough to go skiing at Big Bear in the Poconos that we'll be getting the first real Arctic blast 'o the year. It seems that Saturday's high on the mountain is gonna be 0. That's right, 0. Wheeeee! )
