Madagascar Winter

I’m freezing my ass off in Tana’s winter. Woke up this morning to 8° C; no frost on the car windows, but I could see my breath. I suppose I shouldn’t complain, in Fianar it was 4° C. And, in the grand scheme of things, a Madagascar winter is still a thousand times better than a Madison one. (I might think about revising this statement had any of the winters been worth a damn—snow wise—and after having gone out and spent money on x-country skis our first winter that were then never used enough to justify the purchase.) Poinsettias are draining of color from their tips on down and remind me of bomb-pops, minus the blue. Across from where I’m staying is a tree that may be a sweet-gum: its star-shaped leaves litter the ground a little more each day. But more than anything, it’s the bone-cold I feel that lets me know winter is here. Each day, as soon as I reluctantly emerge from my comforter, I feel cold. The house is cold, the office is cold—I’m trapped in some cruel Dickens story. Aside from sleeping, the only relief I’ve found comes from running around the lake by the Score Jumbo, but only after 10 minutes of running have elapsed while constantly rubbing my hands together. And today at work when it got to be too much, I grabbed my laptop battery pack and held it between my hands like mug of steaming hot chocolate. Sad, but true. I only have myself to blame for my condition. I packed poorly when I came up to Tana with KP and didn’t bring enough warm clothes for the month that I’ll be here, and I’m too cheap to go out and buy a sweater when I have a dresser full of them back in Fianar. I’ve got my knitting with me, and could bust out a stocking cap in a day or two, but I’m in the middle of a project for Abinda, and don’t want to risk running out of yarn on a side project. Sadly, even this rant didn’t do much to take the edge off. I guess I’ll just go to bed and dream of Louisville in late August for some warmth.