Our brief January thaw (read 30s and streets full of dirt-flavored slushees) departed, leaving us to stare down a slow-moving, mega-cold front which will gift us with a high of 9 degrees on Wednesday.
The anticipation is horrid. Unlike in that movie, The Day After Tomorrow, cold doesn't roar and chase you.
You can't run away. Nope - that real, terrible chill that makes your lungs ache with each breath moves at a slow, yet unrelenting pace. It creeps up, its weight creaking on each step like the killer heading for your bedroom in a horror flick. But there's nothing you can do - the only exit (a plane to Hawaii) is downstairs (not an option unless I want to get fired).
The only viable reaction: burrow under your covers, squeeze your eyes shut, and hope it goes away. Knowing it's coming, that something monstrous is about to slide through your door, casting a long, ominous shadow, sealing your doom.
I hate this part of the winter. So. Much. (Though I think I'd cope if I could hide out in the New York Public Library with Jake Gyllenhal.)