It's freezing in the house today. It seems that the frigid air of the outside has seeped into every crevice (no matter how well sealed) and refuses to get out. A most unwelcome house-guest. Salacious in its unwelcome and unappreciated attentions.
Sitting on the couch, I have the thermostat yanked up to a freakishly high number, warm air blasting out of the wall registers. Humming with comfort. While curled up under a puffy blanket, I also have the gas fireplace on and cranked up to high. Its light hissing sound is in direct competition with the constant yawn of the furnace.
And still I am cold.
Bone cold.
So I sit here on the couch. Cold. I'm reading several books, picking one up and skimming several chapters before putting it down and picking up the other. Then switching again. My mind, affected by cold, cannot seem to focus.
During one of the book switching moments, I noticed some smallish grease spots on the leg of my jeans.
How did those get there? Could have been any number of things, I guess. It bothers me. Not the not knowing, but just that they are there.
Irrationally. I'm bothered. So I draw the blanket more over my legs. I could change jeans, obviously. But that would require a trip out of this cocoon of heat and a pilgrimage upstairs, where I think I may have opened a window for some fresh air. Too cold up there.
So here I sit. Surrounded by heat, but almost untouched by it. Shivering. With grease stains on my jeans.
Indeed.
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