Friday, January 09, 2015
Frigid winter days.
I lament, scorn and resent those moments this past fall when I contemplated purchasing a gas insert for the living room but was too much of a skinflint to actually do it. This non-insulated old house atop a hill whipping in winds of -20 is no pleasant place to be during bitter winter days (and nights). An inefficient woodstove down in a nasty old farmhouse basement doesn't really cut it. Right now I have on a shirt, two sweaters and a coat and the tip of my nose still threatens at breaking off. (Is it still there?)
Our bedroom, being the coldest of all bedrooms upstairs and three stories away from our only heat source, is hardly a welcoming place to lay our weary bones at night. Our nightly ritual is thus: Matt and I run quivering into bed and hastily squirm down low, closing off the opening of cold air and hiding our heads under the five quilts that cover our bed while we talk in shivery, quivery voices until our confined breath finally begins to warm us. Those brave enough (me) take off clothes while writhing under the covers...those not so brave (Matt) threaten that not a speck of cold air can come in while writhing is occurring.
I always like to have ice water next to my bed for when I wake up thirsty and in the morning- the ice is still in a nice tidy cube.
In winter, though I love to read in bed, I can't convince my arms and fingers to be exposed to the bedroom air for any length of time so my reading is done instead during the day, standing by the woodstove or, if I am lucky, in the arms of a tired and napping Matt.
In. The. World.
On second thought- it is a rather pleasant place after all.