verge (vʉrj)
the edge, brink, or margin (of something): also used figuratively the verge of the forest, on the verge of hysteria

to tend or incline (to or toward)
to be in the process of change or transition into something else; pass gradually (into) dawn verging into daylight

Thursday, January 7, 2010

It's Too Damn Cold. Wait. It's Too Damn Hot.

So I go to give Remy a romp in the snow.  As long as he doesn't decide to stand up straight, we're the same size.  I'm undaunted by this because his goofiness is even larger than his stature and I like to believe I have him wrapped right around my little finger.  I attribute that to our age difference:  I'm 49 years his senior.  I'm the mature grown-up.  He thinks I'm in charge.

But let me tell you about this romp we take.  I have temporarily forsaken my high standards for bein' stylin' at all times (don't panic over this) so that I can withstand the ever-so-chill of our cold, cold, cold winter.  I am sufficiently bundled and as soon as Remy sees that it's me and that I've come to be the center of his universe (he's been well-trained), he gets down right giddy about going out.    The door opens and out galumphs Remy, landing with a giant ka-thump in the snow.

And he rolls in it.  
And he jumps in it.  
He leaps through the air!  
He slobbers(!) such joy
Which clings to his hair.
He buries his face 
And burrows his nose 
And then he squishes it between
Each of his toes.

And then, as his magnum opus he belly surfs across the yard, stretching out just as far as he can go, from his tippy tail to his humungous head, using the snow to create a memory-foam sort of bed for himself.

I am simply aghast.  I do these pitiful little jigs and jogs to keep warm, but I'm as rigid and frigid as all get-out.  But he's so happy that I feel a little, well, almost jealous. I suppose I'm glad for Cold that someone appreciates it.  Because I sure as hell don't.  But I am captivated by his bliss and so I manage to uncurl my frozen fingers just enough to throw his rubber ball (which feels more like throwing a rock), and together we pay homage to the sun and the way it blings up the ground.  Remy is Winter's mascot.  King of Winter, he revels in it.

And then comes the irony.

Oh, someone's laughing somewhere.  

I come inside, the day wears on, night falls, and I spend my time getting all warmed up. It's a part-time job in this neck of the woods, but the cold finally melts.  

Feeling good.  Ummmm-mmmmm, so good. Toasty, even.  

I'm comfy.  These covers, they're good--really good.  Not too heavy, not too thin. Oh, the warmth of night in deep, deep winter--the para-dox-i-cal-beau-ty of it all....I'm thinking.  All marshmallowy-warm and yummy under here.  Queen of Cozy, I dub myself.  Remy can have the snow, but I have these covers, I'm thinking.  

I drift off....



I am on fire!  I am UTTERLY on fire!  These blankets! Get them off of me right this minute, I shriek in my most Exorcist voice.  Get those windows open!  Get me OUT! OF! HERE! A power surge? A hot flash?? Who (and I want names!) came up with such lame expressions???  I'm not having a little old hot flash--oh, no!  I'm having a full-throttle, all-hands-on-deck Sizzle Fest and I'm dripping in sweat, my hair is suddenly eight inches too long, and I'm apparently giving birth to That Time of Life. With the windows open, I hang my head over the ledge, and I see the glitter on the ground....

And suddenly.

I want nothing more than to channel Remy, and to jump into this memory foam of snow. 

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