Yesterday afternoon I turned on the heater for the first time this winter. We turned it off before going to bed; overnight the outside temperatures dipped into the 30s. This morning the apartment was 66. The heater went back on.
I don't want to complain, but winter is our open-window season. I observed it last week, and typed with cold fingers, in old flannel shirts. Seems to me one of the advantages of working at home is having windows that open, that let in fresh unhumid air, the smell of water, the sounds of parrots. What's a little digital discomfort when you have all that?
The sun is shining, but it won't touch our windows till midafternoon. Still, I just got up and turned off the heater. I also opened the window and a chilly blast entered the office. Below, a man bundled in a bomber jacket turned off the boardwalk along the canal and ducked into the parking garage. I closed the window.
Like northerners, I am counting the days until spring training.
(Not even two months into blogging and I'm already talking about the weather. This is what happens when you don't leave the house for three days except to send a submission and pick up Indian food.)
