When the sky becomes so cold that water becomes a solid, that sky needs to go away. That sky needs to summon the sunlight and warm it up to a temperature in which a human can function. Whipping biting bone-chilling wind is the devil, especially when one is trying to pump one’s overpriced gasoline into one’s aging Japanese car. Give me 110 degrees over this any day.
Okay, Canada. Okay, Yankees up there above the Mason-Dixon line. Bring it. Tell me what a wuss I am and how awesome it is to ski in frosty weather, and how your snowman is the bomb. Tell me 20 degrees ain’t nothin’, that you’ve skinnydipped in Arctic waters and liked it and you can hardly wait to do it again. No, thank you.
The weatherman predicts colder weather in the morrow, but really, does it matter? Cold is cold. And he’s not losing his job even if it turns out to be cloudy with a chance of meatballs.