Growing up in Minnesota, you would think I would be more than used to cold weather. Even in October when fronst ws literally on the pumpkins, it was a place of stoic people and acceptance of nature.
Lake Wobegon may be fictitious, but the people and the attitude they portray are more than real.
That was just the way things were. Your personal ethnic background didn’t matter. The basic attitude and ability to deal with the cold cut across all line.
I am not a teen any longer and I get cold. I have no joy in finding frost inside my windows and ice on my nose in the morning. I no longer care to compete in the “layers to bed” sweepstakes.
The allegedly warm water I I can hear trickling in the register seems effective for only one-two hands wide of a five foot white iron beast that is just fixed there, refusing to cooperate.
Key? Bleed the thing in case I should be so lucky that the issue is only air bubbles?
Right. And I am the one with bloody hands since whoever cranked the valves last year certainly was not interested in allowing leaks.
We shall not talk of menopause either, nor the cold that seems to have settled int my bones leaving me feeling comfortable only in sand ovens of the desert.
It is time to put another layer on the bed, wrap my hands in knitting wool and listed to an audio book, pretending that 4°C is just what I want for weather.