An open letter to 48 degree days in December

Really, I’m trying to enjoy you. After all, you make it easier to concurrently ride my bike and maintain feeling in both my hands and feet, and for that I shouldn’t complain. But I can’t shake the feeling that this is not the new normal I want to get used to, at least not yet, and not here where temperatures (rather, lack thereof) are a point of stubborn pride for the seemingly relatively mundane accomplishment of enduring them. Though to be fair, there is nothing mundane about enduring double-digit below zero wind blasts to the face (or any other part of the body for that matter). And 48 degrees, while you are not that physically difficult to endure (and oh! perhaps if running unfettered were a possible plausibility, pasty legs be damned, perchance I would have more room for forgiveness in my grinchy soul; a sucker for the freedom of shorts, bare skin mingling with the breeze I have never professed not to be), you are showing up both a little too late and a little too soon for my liking, as my ankle hasn’t healed and my skis and skates are gathering dust, as neither are designed for water, and acid rain is all you seem to be promising this week. Yet I will still attempt to enjoy your thunder. Because if it’s going to rain, it might as well pour, and if it’s not going to snow, I might as well sit back and try to enjoy the storm.

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