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A few nights ago I checked my weather app to see what the forecast for the week was going to be.  Holy crackers, frozen batman, negative teens to twenties?!  I, for the one billionth time this winter, questioned my sanity at choosing to live on the 45th parallel.  Why do I live here?  Why?!

cat
Oh right.  Snow forts.

I treated myself to a complain session with a friend who lives up in Canada.  “You think YOUR temperatures are bad?  Well, get a load of mine!”  I pounded out imperiously over Skype.  Here at least was one place I could be a winner.

Yesterday I went outside to get the mail, and despite the assurance from my app that it was -10, it didn’t feel that bad.  It was sort of puzzling, but then reality often is for me.  (Weather is one of those magical events that elude me.  I am rarely dressed or prepared for what is going on outside around me.  I used to spend winters garbed with only a worn out hoodie because I was determined that if I didn’t acknowledge the snow/cold that it meant that the snow/cold didn’t exist.)

pole
Of course, I speak these words as someone who’s lifelong Unholy Urges list has included wanting to lick a pole in winter. 

Getting the physical mail reminded me that I had emails awaiting my cheerful reply.  I popped open my browser and clicked on my Gmail bookmark.  It was conveniently placed next to a weather toolbar I had installed some weeks back.  For some odd reason the toolbar was telling me that it was 13 degrees outside.

It was then that I realized that on a whim to be “more global” I had set my phone app to Celsius the previous week, and forgot to change it back to Fahrenheit.

The End.

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