It’s Freaking Freezing Outside So I’m Not Going Anywhere
When I got to college in Boston in the fall of 2006, I did not own a scarf or gloves. I’d never needed them growing up in Ft. Lauderdale. As the temperatures started to drop, I went out and bought my first winter coat — a to-the-floor thick brown wearable comforter that I wore from September to April. I was constantly freezing. My thin Miami skin was unable to handle the northern winter. But I was also enamored. A friend once caught me outside my dorm playing in the snow by myself and singing a made-up song that went, “Gaby likes snow! Gaby likes snow!” (More the Wiggles than Bob Dylan lyrically, I know.)
But that magic wore off a bit. Almost seven years later and I still touch my window, feel the cold of New York City and proclaim to “hate everything.” Snow? Beautiful. Lovely. Romantic. Cold weather? Ugh, please stop.
Last year, we were lucky. My boots hardly got scuffed with how little snow there was. The weather was weirdly global-warming scary pleasant.
It’s reaching that time now where it’s really, really cold outside. Like really cold. So I guess it’s now time to do nothing. But I don’t want to miss anything fun due to not wanting to venture outside so how about we all make a pact?
Let’s hibernate like bears until spring. I mean it. Let’s all decide here and now not to do anything too fun requiring lots of people or obligation until like, mid-March.
Look, I know you like fun but no one wants to leave their house right now. I could be down for some kind of group Skype session or maybe you all want to come here and have an extended slumber party? Otherwise count me out.
I admire though, the people I see still waiting on line for nightclubs in bare legs, with no coats. You guys have dedication I reserve for Netflix and bowls of kettle corn.
Tell you what. I’ll come out to your birthday party 45 minutes away if I’m allowed to wear sweatpants and my comforter around my shoulders into the club.
A | A | A
Underwear Man stood in the front yard of my friend Dean’s house everyday at 1:45 in the morning for six weeks.
It started with a right swipe, a little green heart. Tinder of course.
Though I acknowledge and appreciate the differences in human experiences, and while your heartbreak is (and always will be) uniquely and completely your own, I must urge you to consider that I have been where you are.
With his hat cocked back, body tilted away from his cane, and right forefinger pointing directly at his audience, Joseph Ducreux commands the attention of those viewing his self-portrait.