It's days like these that I understand why my friend Mark gave up NEOhio for the scrubby, whore-infested desert of Las Vegas. Anywhere I don't have to wear two pairs of socks to bed is quite tempting right now. Third-world countries with no running water, but a balmy 65 degrees? I'm so there.
I haven't left my house for three days for fear of the elements. (Well, and a headcold kept me in today.) Not that the house is much warmer. I'm fairly certain the cats' dish of water is close to icing over. Anytime I near an even somewhat reclining position, the cats attach themselves to me to siphon off my body heat. I delude myself into thinking it's loyal affection.
An hour ago, I broke down. I tore off the shackles of thriftiness and eco-consciousness and bumped my thermostat up to 67 degrees. I decide the two extra degrees are my winter vacation. Instead of sitting on the beach in Florida, I'll sit in my living room with only one layer of blankets. We all need our indulgences.