Really, really cold. Below zero cold. It has been for two weeks — except for a teasing two days of springlike 40s, which only made me feel worse.

I know I’m a Minnesotan. I’m supposed to be hearty. But it’s starting to get to me. I’m irritable with Ed, with the kids, with my mom. I don’t feel like doing anything except pulling the covers over my head and sleeping until it warms up.

When I left work last night, my nostrils instantly stuck together, and the wind felt like a thousand stick pins were being hurled at my face. Our less-than-two-year-old car groaned like me in labor when I started it. The tires crunched over icy patches, and the joints of the car creaked in the silent air. Freezing cold air makes everything sound louder, even my internal screaming, which is getting closer to becoming external with every frigid day.

I’m sapped of creativity, energy, motivation. I feel horrible because it’s Ed’s birthday (happy birthday, hot stuff!) and I haven’t done anything to make it special. But I swear I’m gonna suck it up and get my shit together Saturday, which is when we’re celebrating.

The only thing that is going to get me through the next 20-some days is the fact that I just booked a plane ticket to see a dear friend in San Diego. I need to feel the sun on my skin and breathe in air that doesn’t make my nose bleed. And spend some time with my girls — the ones who know me so well I never have to apologize for being me.

Even if that me is a cranky, exhausted, incoherent mess.

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