After a soul freezing week here in the Midwest, the temperature finally lifted itself to what seems like exalted heights (can I get an amen?) and with it so too, did my spirits rise, and rise high they did, high enough for me to mount the bicycle for only the second time in a month. More than a week of sub-freezing temperatures can make forty degrees feel like spring.
I have brain freeze, I'm serious. I can hardly remember what it feels like to be sitting in the ballpark because I'm so buried by winter, my first in Ohio in a decade. There's something inherently painful about seeing a ballfield in winter, imprisoned by snow and ice and the bitterness of cold.
And you know what? I would never combat the cold with one of those sweaters old Wayno wears. Does he know people call him Sweaterpants?
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