It was below twenty degrees again last night. I don’t really care how far below twenty it goes, below twenty is cold enough for me. I just sit in the window watching the people walk down the street all bundled up and all looking like smokers who found a way to smoke without cigarettes. Even my vendor has disappeared for now, his spot on the corner replaced by of trash appearing under a melted snow pile which is now frozen into some macabre urban ice sculpture. It all combines to make me dream of spring, something that at times seems farther away every day.
My brain has started a list, a sort of psycho wish list, of things to keep itself warm. So ....
I want it to be warm outside; I'm talking 70 or 80 degrees warm. I want to be able to say I'm hot and not just be looking in the mirror when I say it. I want to hear that I have the house at the shore for my annual week of relaxation or solo debauchery or whatever it is I do there. I want to sit with my feet buried in the sand while I sip on an ice cold Corona and chew on the lime. True, I don't actually sip beer but I like the thought just the same. I want Fred's. I want to drive Foxy with the top down, the stereo blaring, and peeps thinking I must be totally insane. I want to buy sunscreen and not just need it for my face because the snow is too damn bright.
I want to sit on the roof in a tank and shorts and watch the stars all night.
Now that I have probably totally jinxed myself I do have one realistic thought that is warming. Phillies pitchers and catchers report Sunday. Maybe spring isn't that far off after all.
Sheryl Crow - Anything But Down