Five degrees outside the lodge. The wind has picked up, whipping the snow squalls across the tundra --er -- golf course.
This morning's low at home was about 4 degrees, compared to 15.7 below zero yesterday. By tomorrow morning it's supposed to dip near 20-below at my house, and perhaps reach minus-30 in the north country.
Not looking forward to anything in particular, I can't get excited about physical conditioning. Incarcerated as the sole proprietor of the retail shop, I have no chance to duck out for a quick lap. By quitting time, the temperature should be headed down faster than a scared submarine. Beside that, I have another night meeting at the town offices before I even get home.
Maybe Friday. The temperature is supposed to bounce back up to the 20s by then, which should feel like tee shirt weather. Then real tee shirt weather moves in for next week, which could bring this whole ski thing to a sloppy, wet halt.
Weather like this drives the lightweights out of New England. Once they realize it isn't all foliage, maple syrup and fun season they usually can't head for Myrtle Beach or Arizona fast enough.
I used to revel in the harshness. Then I let myself get too busy to get out there and grapple with it. The harshness wins when all you can do is throw up walls against it and put on heavier sweaters as your metabolism slows. You have to get up and spar with it. And eat and sleep and all the other details of life.
Maybe I'll drag myself through a token weight workout tonight, just to grasp a pinch of what I used to hold in my fists with an untiring grip.