Dear Santa: Long-johns, please.

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I detest the cold.

I’m cold all the time. I’m the one in four layers of clothing when everyone else is comfortable in a hoodie. I’ll go swimming only if it’s hot enough to fry eggs on the sidewalk. I sleep wearing socks and slippers, with my pajama pants tucked into my socks so they don’t ride up (this baffles and frustrates my hot-blooded husband, not only because I’m sure he would prefer a sleeping partner in a more advanced state of undress but also because he’d rather not be sweating beneath a comforter and a duvet in the middle of summer).

Though I like autumn, I start groaning when temperatures fall below 12°C. Dread sets in when it goes below zero, and the phrase “windchill factor” makes me want to curl up with my hot water bottle and hibernate in my well-padded bed for the rest of the season.

The late fall, at least, is beginning to look different to me now that I’m learning to see through a lens. I’ll actually venture outside. On purpose. And if I’m holding my camera, busy looking, I pay less attention to the blood freezing solid in my veins.

This morning we woke to the ground sparkling with frost. The leaves in the photo above were illuminated by a shaft of early morning sunlight glinting through a gap between the backyard fence boards. I tried to catch the rim of frost before it melted away moments later.

December’s almost upon us. Winter will provide some unique photo opportunities. Perhaps with some additional layers, a balaclava, and maybe some hot potatoes in my pockets, I’ll be ready.

 

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