- Two-piece thermals.
- Fleece britches.
- Jeans over the britches, for the walk to the car.
- Wool socks.
- Chemical toe heaters (BEST THINGS EVAR).
- Paddock boots.
- Half-chaps (over the britches, after the jeans are off).
- Turtleneck.
- Fleece pullover.
- Fleece jacket.
- Down vest.
- Fingerless gloves.
- Riding gloves.
- Helmet.
Having Lear try to bite my shoulder and get nothing but a mouthful of synthetic fluff: Absolutely priceless.
3 comments:
13 degrees F. here just now and students on campus were wearing shorts because "the sun is out". I mention this, not to make light of your suffering in the cold, but to show that if you live in a fiercely cold climate long enough, you actually go insane.
OH MY GOD. Also hee.
If I lived any further north, the surge of crippling seasonal affective blurgh would lay me flat. I'd spend the winter eating carbs, getting smashed on samogon, and telling myself sad stories about the deaths of kings or something.
Old joke:
This is Russia in winter. It is night. Cold. Snow. Wind. The howl of a wolf. Darkness. And then, from the window of a tiny hut, one hears a balalaika being played. Plink...plink-plink. Plink...plink-plink.
Darkness. Snow. The wind in the swaying trees. And still...plink. Plink-plink.
SUDDENLY! The door of the cabin flies open! There, staring out into the endless night, a huge figure of a man looms against the firelight. "FUCK YOUR MOTHER!" he shrieks at the blackness and snow. Then he slams the door back shut.
Darkness. Snow. The wind. And slowly, from the window of the hut: Plink. Plink-plink.
Ah. Russian melancholy.
Heard a segment on the radio today, made me think of you.
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