I haven’t been warm for three weeks.
My town is at the bottom of a valley, so we regularly have temperature inversions in which hot air traps cold air beneath it for long periods of time. From context clues, I have gathered that “long periods of time” means “forever, probably”.
I don’t really remember what warmth is anymore. I think the frost has spread to my brain. When I try to dredge up memories of balmy beaches or blazing car seats, I can’t picture them. I was born in the cold, I live in the cold and someday I will die in the cold. Yesterday I felt the sun on my face for the first time in days and thought it was a heat wave. Later, the local arm of the National Weather Service posted this cheery message on Facebook:
I’m sick again because my immune system checked my calendar and noticed this would be a really bad week for me to be less than functional. My white blood cells schedule all their fights for the days I have a lot to do. It’s a fun game we like to play.
I’m not good at getting sick. In an ideal world, I would get unearthly pale and sit in my bed embroidering something while people fretted around me. I’d bravely said things like, “Don’t worry about me. I’ll pull through.” with a weak, tragic smile. If it was bad enough, I’d die with a tiny sigh and a promising poetry career cut tragically short. Also, for some reason I’d be blonde.