I HATE cold weather. Hate it. There is no such thing as too many blankets or too much heat (though there is such a thing as paying for too much heat). My fingers are cold and my toes are cold, and a chill permeates the rest of me and makes me want to pace, which means I have to emerge from my blanket cave, which turns into one of those vicious cycles they warn children about in bedtime stories.
I told my yoga teacher last night that I was hunkering down in my blanket pile for the foreseeable future, and she suggested I try and crawl out long enough to go to a warming yoga class Wednesday morning.
Reasonable solutions are such a killjoy when the aim is a display of histrionics.
Here, I'll mitigate my whining with some Muppets: