And the thing is, I HATE BEING COLD.

But you’re from North Dakota, you challenge, like my geographical origins somehow make me a cold-blooded creature that enjoys napping in icy ponds.  The truth is I spent the majority of my formative years in a hot bath.  This because my mother insisted on turning the heat down to 60 each night.  We lived in a glass-front A-frame on the prairie, so this meant each morning the temp inside our house hovered around 42 degrees.  My mother justified this because, it being the 1980s, we all slept in heated waterbeds.  Did she not realize how painful it was to hop from a steaming waterbed into the frozen tundra that was my Love’s Baby Soft-scented bathroom, wearing nothing but a rainbow-screenprinted nightshirt and fuzzy slippers with different colored toes?  My only refuge was to run one of those baths that hogged all the hot water and infuriated my sister, and lounge there for an hour reading a Sweet Valley High book and letting a trail of hot water from the spout splash onto my toe while my mother screamed from below that I’d filled the tub too full again and water was dripping into the kitchen.

My heatless life of the past few weeks has sent me into survival mode.  Here’s a typical day for me under the blanket:

Awake under a mound of fuzzy blankets wearing three sweatshirts and fuzzy slipper-boots and rub my numb nose back to life.

Lie there for an extra ten minutes dreading the sprint to the bathroom.

Sprint to the bathroom, remove just enough clothing to take care of business.

Bundle up again and sprint to the kitchen.  Eat whatever I can lay my hands on quickly that isn’t refrigerated (miniature Snickers, an untoasted slice of bread).

Run one of those baths that hogs all the hot water and lounge there for an hour reading Entertainment Weekly, letting a trail of hot water from the spout splash onto my toe.

Lie there for an extra ten minutes dreading the thought of my naked wet body hitting the Siberian landscape that is my Philosophy-scented bathroom.

GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!  Throw on three towels and a bathrobe, wrap a towel around my head.

Bundle up in layers of sweatshirts and fuzzy pajama bottoms and my now foot-scented slipper-boots.

Sprint to the couch and burrow under my yellow fuzzy blanket.

Practice law all day from under the blanket, feigning ignorance when callers wonder about the muffled sound of my voice on the phone.  Sprinkle in hot baths during work breaks and eat miniature Snickers to sustain energy.

Jump out from under the blanket long enough to do an exercise tape without removing slipper-boots.

For evening’s entertainment, watch frozen winter sports on TV through a peephole at the top of the blanket, refuse to venture out with friends because “it’s too cold tonight, are you crazy???”

Run a hot bath before bed.

GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!  Throw on three towels and a bathrobe, wrap a towel around my head.

Bundle up in layers of sweatshirts and fuzzy pajama bottoms and my now foul-scented slipper-boots.

Bury all but my nose under a mound of fuzzy blankets and fall asleep dreaming of warmer days to come.

What else?  Come on, what are you dreaming of right now?

Jillian Michaels: DON’T STOP NOW! KEEP GOING! YOU NEED STRESS TO CHANGE! EVERYTHING I SAY IS MEANT TO BE WRITTEN IN CAPITAL LETTERS! YES, I KNOW YOU HATE ME! I KNOW YOU WANT TO KICK IN THE TV SCREEN! BUT I GET RESULTS! RESULTS! RESULTS! DON’T STOP, I SAID! KICK THAT ASS, KICK THAT ASS! YES, I HAVE RIDICULOUS ABS, AND YOU HATE ME EVEN MORE FOR IT! DROP TO THE FLOOR. UP. DOWN. UP I SAID! NO BREAKS, I SAID! JUST TWO MORE. I MEAN FIVE MORE. AND FIVE MORE AFTER THAT. WE DON’T GET THESE KINDS OF ABS FOR FREE, PEOPLE! DON’T PHONE IT IN! WE DON’T QUIT AT THE END! I WANT YOU TO FEEL LIKE YOU’RE GOING. TO. DIE!!!!!!

Rosie-the-20-Pound-Cat:

Like she did tonight.  When I was driving through the back roads of Belle Meade in the darkness, just me, myself, and I and a bunch of fancy mansions for company.  (Read: No one around to catch me singing along with the car radio, something you should never be caught doing because you don’t want anyone to think you’re a weirdo.  Singing along with the car radio by yourself is weird ― everyone knows that.)

And not that I’m bragging or anything, but I sound really terrific singing “That’s What Friends Are For.”  I can do all the voices and all the harmonies and even the instrumental parts (with my voice).  As I do tonight, with exuberance.  “And I…never thought I’d feel this way…” 

I’m just getting into it, really moving now, when some car has the audacity to drive up behind me on the same road.  Now what am I supposed to do?  It’s not like I can stop singing.  Not this song, not even if I tried.  Anyway, it’s dark, and the driver can’t see me singing from way back there, so I shine on, “Keep smilin’, keep shinin’, knowin’ you can always count on me…for sure…that’s right baby (I added that last part – nice, huh?), that’s what friends are for-or-or-or…”

Except then the same car has the nerve to pull up beside me at this here red light WHILE THE SONG IS STILL PLAYING, and right at the best part, too, the second verse when the instrumental starts it out and then I know exactly where to jump in with “well you came and opened me, and now there’s so much more I see…” (harmony here)… “and so by the way I thank you…whoh-oh-whoh-oh…”

Except the driver is now neck and neck with me, and he probably saw me bobbing my head back and forth before and suspected I might be one of those weirdos who sings along to my car radio, and now he’s trying to catch me in the act so he can go home and make fun of me to his family.  (“You should see this weirdo I saw tonight.  She was actually singing along with her car radio.”) 

So I’m forced to sing without moving my mouth, or pretend I’m chewing gum, which is not nearly as enjoyable as the fun I was having before he so rudely interrupted my performance.  I inch my car up a bit so he can only see the back of my head, but he inches up, too, refusing to let me off the hook.  And by now the song’s damn near over, and I’m about to miss the…

Green light!  I put pedal to the metal and speed through the intersection, leaving the gawker in the dust, and I’m…

…alone again with my song, just in time for the grand finale: “count on me for…count on me for…count on me for…(overlapping voices and I can pull off each and every one)…that’s what friends are for-or-or-or.  Doo-doo-doo….”

Whew.  My secret’s still safe.

And this is what we women do just to get ready…

for BED!

You know that new cardio machine at the gym, the one where you can make like you’re in-line skating, where you dart your booty out to one side and then the other? I know you think you look really sporty as you dart away on this thing, but you can’t see you from behind. Well, I saw you at the gym this weekend, and it nearly knocked me to the floor.

Because your booty, your “ass”et, your bum, your heiny, the one that looks so fine in a pair of Lucky jeans? It doesn’t look so good on that machine. In fact, it looks downright scary darting at onlookers that way, especially in those skin-tight black leggings we’re all wearing this time of year. Like those carnival mirrors that turn your image into a grotesque clown, this machine takes your sassy J-Lo-esque behind and enlarges it tenfold. I’m telling you, this machine is to your booty what horizontal stripes are to your hips. All I’m saying is, from one girlfriend to another, if you dare to venture onto this atrocity, TIE A SWEATSHIRT AROUND YOUR WAIST.

You’re welcome. I’ve got your back.

Look down at fitness machine on which running, see that it reads:

“Discontinue use of machine if dizzy, faint or exhausted.”

* * *

The gym.  The perfect setting to meet potential mates.  I mean, the place exudes physicality and sex and…

…entire shirts dripping with sweat (how is that possible?) and fatty bouncing body parts and caveman-like grunts and some sour smell that appears to be the results of everyone’s collective effort.

Ew.

Anyway, maybe I’ll just get fit. 

* * *

Mental note: Avoid the gym on the first Saturday after New Year’s.  Do you REALLY need to hog the whole mat for your yoga poses? 

* * *

No, not me, I’m not listening to Air Supply on my iPod.

* * *

Overheard while hoisting eight-pounders over my head: “Dude, what are you pressing, 250?”

* * *

How is it that yesterday, when I had the same exact body but lounged around dipping chips into sour cream, my body was repugnant and jiggly, when today, while I’m lifting and running and stretching it all over the place, it suddenly looks fit and buff?  I like how that works.  Feel good, look good.  Maybe I’ll try this again sometime.

1. Citrus.
2. Boots that look like slippers and slippers that look like boots.
3. The constant possibility of a snow day.
4. Resolve.
5. The first-round auditions of American Idol.
6. Philosophy bubble bath in “Pure Grace” scent.
7. Hot drinks spiked with magical potions that warm you through and through.
8. Corduroy in fun primary colors.
9. Birds counting on you for sustenance and rewarding you with their presence in your backyard.
10. Flannel sheets and flannel shirts.
11. The Golden Globes and their drunken guests and glamorous fashions.
12. Soup on the stove and cookies in the oven.
13. No weeding or mulching.
14. A clean slate.

“I Need a Silent Night” Amy Grant (because I do)

“Somebody to Love” (Glee Cast Version) (because it’s Gleeful)

“Sic ‘Em On a Chicken” Zac Brown Band (there’s a fast fiddle part in the middle that makes you want to sprint off the treadmill with energy)

“Proud Mary” (um, Glee Cast Version again)

“Jingle Bells” Amy Grant (not the version you’re thinking of; emphasis on the syncopation here)

“Lean On Me” (Er, Glee Cast Version)

“Waking Up in Vegas” Katy Perry (I just like the melody, okay?)

“Don’t Stop Believin’” (Proud to admit it, Glee Cast Version)

“Raining Sunshine” Miranda Cosgrove (sunshine!)

“Lemonade” Phil Vassar (Still trying to figure out all the lyrics, but I think they go: “Sometimes you’re the king, sometimes you rule; sometimes you’re the joker man playin’ the fool.  Sometimes you fit in, sometimes you’re just out of place.  Sometimes you fall, fall all the way down, sometimes you shoot over” — ? — “before you hit the ground, but you gotta play the game, so why play it safe?  Life’s about changes, lemons into lemonade.”) 

 “American Honey” Lady Antebellum (talks about summer a lot…mmmmm…and honey a lot…mmmmm)

“How You Live (Turn Up the Music)” Point Of Grace (got this one free on a CMA Music Fest promo card; nice message)

“Dancing In Circles” Love and Theft (my favorite new song and the perfect cooldown with eyes closed)

This little guy stood out, too, but it was too late.  He flew across the road like he couldn’t help himself, and he was no match for my monster truck.  I squeezed my eyes shut and hoped he’d made it across.  But when I looked back in my rear-view mirror, I saw the unmistakable flash of red bouncing and fluttering on the road.  Even worse, he wasn’t dead, instead in pain and lying there waiting for the next monster truck to come along.  I said it aloud, “Oh, no, I hit a cardinal!”  Like hitting a wren or a robin wasn’t as bad, but a gorgeous red cardinal, and a teenage cardinal at that.  I felt sick, and the cheerful music felt wrong.

I tried to console myself with the thought that it was the little guy’s fault.  Surely he saw me.  Why did he just fly into my truck?  Stupid bird.  Or else he was reckless, or he wanted to die.  Except maybe he couldn’t stop mid-flight.  And, when it came down to it, why do I drive a big mean man-made truck?  He was just flying along in his own air space, minding his own business.  His kind was here before my truck ever was.  He belongs here.  My truck has no business here.  Maybe I should stop driving entirely. 

I felt sick the rest of the way home, in honor of the lost cardinal, knowing in an hour I’d be having brunch with friends and would have forgotten all about him, while he flopped around on that cold highway getting rained on.  I vowed to fill all my bird feeders to the brim that morning.

When I pulled into my driveway, another cardinal just like his lost friend was perched on my fence, the exact same size, another teenager.  Maybe they even went to the same bird high school.  I told myself it was a sign, that this little bird was here to tell me, “It’s alright.  It was meant to be.  It’s all part of the circle of life.”  I turned off the ignition and paused there for a minute, door closed, not wanting to exit and scare him away.  “No, really, go about your day,” the bird told me.  “Never mind us.  It was his fault.”

Or maybe I was just trying to make myself feel better.