Okay, so that's a lie. I'm wearing more layers of clothing than most Gypsy women. It's freaking COLD. The title was just a lame Springsteen reference that my syster and maybe one other person will get.
I wasn't, and still amn't sure what to write about this morning. There's always a stock of things I could say about my bike, and about the thrills and joys and inexpressible adrenaline rushes of motorcycling, or I could continue to talk about the cold, but I always feel like a fish talking about air when I discuss the cold. I mean, face it, I live in the Deep South. They call it that for a reason. We're almost Equatorial down here. Plus, living in the Mississippi (yes, I spelled it right) Delta (that means bottom-land, or "swamp" in the common vernacular) it's always humid and warm, so cold here isn't cold elsewhere. And it's a wet cold. *grin*
And so. 24 degrees to me is tantamount to death. And the cats aren't all that crazy over it, either. They have a screened-in back patio that they like to hang out on, talk cat talk, smoke cigarettes, make catcalls at the passing puss...no, not gonna finish that one. 'Nyhoo, this morning they're acting like members of the Polar Bear Club--they go out for a few minutes, realise it's BITTERLY cold out there and that cat pads don't insulate all that great against concrete, and suddenly they're banging on the door to get inside, falling tumble-bumble, pell-mell over each other to get back into the warmth, where they calmly clean themselves, get a bite to eat, then a little more cleaning, then back outside.
Ah, to be a cat. To have no cares except remembering which foot hasn't been cleaned and when my next nap is going to happen.
Me, I'm going to do laundry. Lots of it. Covered in cat hair.