Or maybe just this January.
Or this week, particularly. Or today. Today felt like North Dakota. The wind threw a face-full of dry snow from my car as I brushed it off. With the next swipe, it delivered a load off the front hood and into my boot tops.
Let's face it. A brown, ankle-length quilted parka (worn with the famous paisley waders) has limited sex appeal. Laura Ingalls somehow attracted Almanzo Wilder wearing longjohns and 8 layers of muffler for 8 months of The Long Winter. Instead of describing all those days of Bible-reading during blizzards, I wish she had clued us into how she wooed a husband while dealing with perpetually chapped skin.....which she never showed him, anyhow.
Again, it could just be this January.
I've dated almost ritually in Januarys past. Last year I was taken out by both The Editor and Another Man and had to choose between them. A few years before that, I met skinny, blond Evan at Gypsy Bar when we made out on the dance floor; he later took me to a movie on Martin Luther King Day, after which we downed a bottle of Ruffino and made out some more. My first kiss--freshman year in college, used dorm loveseat, football player offering wine coolers--came shortly after the new year via a set-up with a friend of a friend of my roommate Suzanne, who thought I'd "like big guys."
I somehow felt sexy enough to contribute to those situations. And one of those times was even in Moorhead, Minnesota....where the wind comes whipping down the plains. So why, this January, do I feel like more like eating peanut butter from the jar than finding someone to make-out with. More than match.com-ing. More than even just smiling at co-workers in the elevator because, after all, lips can't be seen through all the fuzz on my parka hood.
Sigh. I need to start disconnecting the cold feelings from the cold outside. I'd gladly take suggestions.
*Thanks, boston.com, for the mention.
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