I have a good friend who has lived here for the past ten years. She says that every March at some point she breaks down and swears she won’t stay in New York for another winter. “That’s it. We’re done. We’re moving. You can have your designer cupcakes.” (Direct quote.)

Friend, pray tell: how do you make it to March?

I know, it’s colder where you live, but seriously, it’s freezing here. Levi describes those gusts of wind as “a frozen baseball bat hitting you in the face.” This morning, a tourist on my street walked by wearing a full snow suit. Not because it’s snowing, but because (and I’m guessing here) it was the only thing she could convince herself to put on this morning.  I saw her walk past and thought, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

It doesn’t help that there’s no heat in our apartment. (Actually, maybe this is the entirety of the issue.) For most of the day, I guard Adelaide from the kitchen, where the oven is turned to 450 and left wide open. My hope is that this will be more effective than the space heater in our bedroom—which would not likely increase my body temperature unless I licked it.

I called the landlord about it; he said to call him in two hours if I was still cold. Adelaide’s lips are blue. I have a winter hat on. I’m wearing a pair of XXL sweat pants and a Northface down coat. Sigh and shiver: we’re still cold.

Because of my ambitious New Year’s resolutions I can’t spend the day in bed under a pile of quilts either. Forget it. At this very minute, my New Year’s resolution is to move to some place like Florida or Arizona or Australia.

At the risk of sounding dramatic (this all feels very serious right now), you should know that I opened a drawer in the kitchen and a shot of frigid air puffed out. January—hated, reviled, cursed January—has even seeped into the furniture.  The butter in my cupboard is rock solid.  If I don’t respond to comments today it will be because my keyboard has frozen. Am I making myself clear? Are you even still reading this?

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