Thursday, March 12, 2009

Daydreamin' (Lupe Fiasco)

So the blissful laziness that has been spring break thus far is continuing on both blissful and lazy to the appropriate degree. The only downside has been that today the lovely weather of days past has faded into foggy greyness and a general chill. Don't get me wrong: it isn't snowing like it was a week and a half ago, so I'm not complaining...much; I just want the 80-degree weather back. The sort that entices you outside only to lure you to sleep in the sunshine-bathed grass. And of course, the warm sunshiny day will always triumph in this contest between its relaxing charms and your will to remain conscious: defeat is inevitable, resistance is futile...the whole nine yards. It doesn't matter if you come out armed with lunch, Aeschylus, and an iPod: all will turn on you in an instant like Brutus against Caesar. Well, perhaps slightly less violently, but certainly the general idea is there. Of course, with very little else to spend the day doing, it's not exactly the most costly of defeats.

But no, today is much chillier. The jog to the gym was nice thanks to the cooler weather, though I could do without my hands freezing after a measly quarter-mile. The only thing that would make it more perfect running weather (to my mind at least) would be to heat up about 7 degrees and then rain. There's something strangely entertaining about running in the rain: it makes the whole process less arduous-seeming. But yes: freezing hands are something that must be contended with when running in cooler climes. Earlier in the term I would combat with this annoying phenomenon by wearing the woollen Peruvian mitten-gloves that Krystle got me while she was abroad in the summer. They're what my sister would affectionately (yet still derisively) call "hobo gloves". There's a mitten flap attached to the back of the glove that fits over the exposed bits of your fingers, but each finger is only gloved up to the half-way point, allowing for the perfect balance of hand-warmth and manual dexterity. Brilliant.

Of course, it doesn't matter if I'm outside or inside, so long as the temperature hovers anywhere below 70 degrees Farenheit, my hands - and feet - will turn into little olive-toned blocks of ice, complete with fingers or toes. It bothers my mother to no end: if I try to curl up on the couch and my feet happen to touch her I am greeted with a short facetious reprimand of "Girl! Get your cold feet away from me!" for my trouble. The only person who appreciates my frigid appendages is Gunnar (also affectionately known as Dad). For some reason - I here blame his Danish/Dutch heritage - this man loves the cold. It's unnatural. Don't get me wrong, I'd rather freeze than boil myself given the choice, but Dad keeps the house like an ice box! I recall over Christmas break we'd had yet another blizzard-like day in Provo. Being the virtuous and strange child I am, I ran outside around 11 that morning to shovel the drive. I say strange because I deny anyone else the opportunity to engage in this wonderfully mindless chore: shovelling the snow is my privledge and my domain upon which no others may encroach. So the frozen precipitation lowering the temperature significantly, you would expect the inside of our house to be warm, wouldn't you? Oh no, you have been cruelly decieved: after sitting in the basement family room swaddled in blankets in sweats and a heavy jumper, my mother came home around 6 in the evening incredulously asking us why we had been sitting in the house with the thermostat reading 55*? A mere 23 degrees warmer than it was outside. I felt rudely cheated for having sat around all day freezing and thinking that I was just abnormally cold when in fact, the fault lay entirely with the heating system. Perhaps this is what it was like to be an extra in Doctor Zhivago.

Gunnar then, loving the cold as he does, thinks it's fantastic when I come up and put my subzero hands on his face or neck. Everyone else just gets annoyed and yelps and swats my hands away while I cackle a bit maliciously. Of course, there is the misconception that I should find this uncomfortable: in fact, I don't even notice it. My hands could be a full 20* colder than the rest of my body and I can't tell unless I touch my face. The same goes for my feet. I think Sebastian found that entire state of affairs to be quite strange, and seemed constantly confounded. Example:
[we are watching Blackadder and sitting on the couch. He takes my hand.]
Sebastian: (quite surprised) Why are your hands so cold?
Me: Dunno. (I shrug my shoulders. This doesn't phase me anymore)
Sebastian: Aren't you cold? Do you want my hoodie or something?
Me: Nope. I'm fine. (Insert cheery smile)
Sebastian: Are you sure?
Me: Yup. They [my hands] are always like that.
Having just checked again after recalling that generic exchange: yup, my hands are once again crisp and cool. I have no good explanation for this absolutely rubbish circulation of blood to my extremities, though all things considered I'm not too fussed about it. I won't worry until they start turning colours.

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