It's about 40 degrees
outside today, crisp and
clear. People are striding about in their coats
and hats and gloves
, I trot off the elevator in
my sweatshirt hoodie
and hands rammed deep into
my skirt pockets. These pockets have become a second
to me, any other skirt feels wrong, I keep
sliding my hands into non-existent pouches.
And I stroll, (though stroll may be the wrong word,
given my stiff leather boots and sharp manner of
walking), yeah, I stride down to the park for my lunch hour at 2:30. Breathing
puffs of air, (not entirely cigarettes, real,
affirmative air). There are patches of
ice warming in the sun, they must have been shaded
all day. They are just there, and I navigate
around them to a bench.
Sure, my hands are a tad cold, but my body, and
the rest of me is comfortably fresh, not chilly,
not shivering, not reddened or icy. Just comfy.
Which is funny to think about, because if I was
at home, same temperature, none of this would be
acceptable. I'd have another layer on or something,
I'd scuffle about in my slippers and grumble about
the thermostat and close my window again; drink
something hot and go to sleep early.
I have been called cold-blooded, I have been called
an Ice Queen, I have been called excessively warm.
All are true, I suppose, in one form or another,
and it's probably got something to do with adrenaline
or activity vs. slouch-shlepping around my digs.
It could have to do with norms, I expect to be cold
outside in December, and hence am ready to accomodate.
It is most likely something that makes infinite
sense, only it's just my lunch break and I'm out
of time. Another day, I suppose, I will retrace
these spidering thoughts.