You know, if you’re ever cold and feeling sorry for yourself, or just plain cold, or for that matter even just plain feeling sorry for yourself, one way to put it all in perspective is to spend a little time reading or re-reading an account of the Shackleton Expedition. I did this the other night. I was left, as always, feeling that the men involved in that undertaking must’ve been an entirely different species of animal from me. Truly makes you feel warm, dry, safe and secure.
In other news, J. was away last night, leaving me to my own devices. The wood stove was not one of them. And it was a cold night (so much for my prediction that we were done with single digit lows.) So, it was pretty chilly shaving this morning. Like, 36º. I thought of Shackleton. I thought of sliding into a rotting, ice-encrusted, reindeer “sleeping bag” in the bow of a 20-foot boat pitching among icebergs in the dark in the southern ocean. I felt fine.