It’s Sunday and the weather channel tells us that, here in New York City, it feels like eleven degrees outside. Eleven degrees. Farenheit.
Days like today make your eyes water, your breath puff, your curled fingers brittle and numb. Outside, I mean. It seems eleven degrees is not very many degrees. Hoods blow backwards, heads dip, eyes squint, and coats are hugged in tightly against the searing wind. It’s jarring and painful and, frankly, entirely antisocial. You just cannot look up from the dull pavement at the city’s marvelous bustle when you’re using every ounce of concentration you have trying to wedge your exposed chin into the too-short collar of your all-the-way-zipped-up coat. You know?
This weather. It’s unideal for anything, other than soup. Warm soup, toasted bread, red wine. Repeat. January’s not so bad, I guess.