So this is four below

This morning, after fighting with the clogged toilet (frozen pipes?) for half an hour, I headed out the door and literally slid across the frozen street to my truck. I pried open the door, turned the ignition and felt the engine shudder hard. I know, baby, I know, I thought as I sat there watching clouds of air puff from my mouth and waited for the truck to warm up.

As I backed out of the parking space the wheels spun and danced on the ice, and the radio gave me the weather report. Nine degrees at Midway, two degrees at the lake. The wind chill is four below. I smiled as she said this. Four below. I don’t recall ever feeling four below. I’ve felt 32 degrees plenty of times: the walk-in freezer at the restaurant I worked at in college, the ice cubes used to keep my favorite cocktail chilled, the pitcher of ice I use to calibrate the milk thermometers at work.

But I don’t remember seeing the roads lacquered to a black sheen. I don’t remember my finger tips burning as they warm up. I don’t remember my skin ever being so dry.

I’m starting to forget what those sticky, luke warm Texas winters feel like.

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