The heat in my apartment’s not working. Hasn’t been for about a week, but I suppose that’s not the whole truth. The heat kicks on if we jack the thermostat up to just past 80 degrees, but even then the heat is patchy, poorly circulated, and more expensive than anything I own. I voted to shutoff the heat altogether, but should the pipes freeze and burst (which is likely in sub 20 degree temperatures), it’s on the renters. What this means is that we must keep the heat on without any actual heat. In short, we’re each paying hundreds of dollars to freeze.
The landlord is slow to act, as a professional assessment of the heating system will cost her money; and also because “if you can’t see you breath, it’s not that cold.” Last night when the temperature dropped to minus 7, I saw my breath. And then said the F word.
My hopes that this gorgeous, snow-packed city would warm up have been smothered. By more snow, in fact.
When I left the house today it was three degrees below zero. I opened my front door, and my first breath choked me. I hacked and gasped for a few seconds on my porch worried that my lung may collapse. That’s what three below will do to ya.
My wussy .3 mile walk to the T numbed my face, hands, and legs, despite the long underwear Mom got me for Christmas. Tiny stars crystallized on my scarf just below my mouth. This cold, it’s a whole different kind of beating.
My teeth are still ringing.
PS: thanks Heidi and Meg for reading this gibberish. Though, me in person is much worse.
You're welcome! And you, on your blog or in person, are always great!
ReplyDeleteSo sorry you are freezing your keester off, but you always tell great stories about such situations! Never say mean things like that about yourself again. Ever.
ReplyDelete