It was cold outside the other morning, or at least just cold enough to make me reach for a jacket I
hadn’t thought about since April. Or maybe early June. This is Nevada, after all, and I’m cold-
blooded by nature.
I know some people revel in the crispness of fall, or even the bitter bite of winter, but not me. As
the Blues Traveler song says, I’m into warmer days.
There’s nothing poetic to me about cold mornings, and I really dislike the shorter days, when the
sun feels like it’s clocking in late and leaving early.
The approach of late fall and winter means frost on the windshield and stiff fingers fumbling for
keys in the dark. Everything takes longer. The car needs warming, layers need adjusting, and
when the sun does show up, it feels like a tease.
I know the real cold is coming, the kind that settles in my bones and makes my knees hurt, and
I’m not looking forward to that at all. But if 41 degrees on a Monday morning sends me to the
closet for a jacket, what’s going to happen when it’s 12 and the wind slaps me in the face?
I keep telling myself I’ll acclimate, that after a few weeks of cool evenings and cold mornings,
I’ll stop flinching when I step outside. But that’s never how it works. I don’t adjust to the cold, I
endure. I layer up, grit my teeth, and wait for the sun to remember its job.
I try to convince myself that this year will be different, that maybe I’ll embrace the season, or at
least tolerate it.
But the truth is, I’m already cold, even though the real cold hasn’t even shown up yet.
You would think that with another few weeks before the real cold comes, I would have plenty of
time to get used to it, to adapt, to stop flinching every time I open the door.
Instead, I’m trying to remember where I put my gloves.








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