Twelve Degrees

It's morning and I don't want to get up, I'm in bed thinking of a few great conversations I had yesterday. I put on Nat King Cole, "Sentimental Reasons" and roll over, not wanting to get up. I'm thinking of my day. What I have to do. That gets me thinking less about yesterday, more about today. I'm thinking about beer. I'm still not drinking ... haven't had a thing since last ... October or November, I don't remember. Not wanting beer, but I have a task to take care of -- to make some warm beer cold.

I get up. In my bathrobe, I start the bath, lots of bubbles, lavendar bath gel, then shuffle barefoot into the kitchen to find a 12 of Rolling Rock beer and a bottle of Kendall Jackson white wine from a party before New Year's. I'm going to a Superbowl party later and it needs to get cold. I put a plastic bag around it. For some reason I'm keen on this plastic bag idea, having thought about it in great detail as I was lying in bed thinking about my day, the plastic bag is key, as I know if I put the beer outside to sit in the snow, it might get the cardboard beer box wet enough to fall apart if I don't put something plastic around it. I go to the livingroom, dragging the beer and wine, unlock the back porch door, it's so cold. I was thinking it would be about 30 today -- warm for us -- but this is not 30. My bare feet are blown by an icy breeze, they cower.

I shove the bag full of semi-booze out on the snowy porch. The teak porch chairs look like boney dinosaur carcasses, frozen and snowed over in their steps. They can't escape. Close the glass door. Lock it.

Flip on the Weather Channel -- 12 degrees -- that makes more sense. Full moon Feb 6 on my birthday. Nice. Leave the weather on in MUTE. Run into the bathroom to dive into a hot soapy tub. I do a jackknife from the high dive. Land with grace and agility in a lavendar ocean.