Living in Dampland as I do, I have occasion to ponder the various flavours of "cold". Oh yes, I can already hear those of you from parts east of here harrumphing, your eyes rolling upwards to take in your frost-limned eyebrows, crying "what does that whiny west coaster know of cold?"
Well, I didn't always live out here. I've slogged through the slush and shoveled the snow. I've listened to the car gargle as it tries to get its fluids moving after I forgot to plug in the block heater. I've blown feeling back into my fingers after futilely trying to scrape the half-inch of ice off the windshield with a credit card. I've had my faced washed in snow, snowballs thrust down the neck of my coat. I've sat on a chair lift at -20 before the wind chill. I've experienced the tears, blasted out of my eyes by those arctic winds, freezing my eyelids together.
And I say: you don't know cold until you've had to slide yourself between bedsheets that feel like a wet bathing suit left in the freezer for three days.