And it is.
Relatively.
I have now been in Oregon for almost three weeks. But, for some reason, I felt the cold Thursday morning.
People hip-deep in Alberta snow would laugh at the adjective. I am not talking about bone-chilling cold. Just cold.
44.
Most of my life, I would have laughed at anyone who said 44 was cold. Especially on a clear, sunny morning.
But, when I opened the back door to head off to the office, I felt as if I had been hit by the Jack Frost Express.
And I think I know why.
When I returned to Oregon, the cool temperatures seemed a bit exotic. After all, I had spent the past year living on the Mexico coast -- where the temperature seldom falls below 70. Other than that pesky bout of high blood pressure and elevated triglycerides, I would claim that my blood had thinned -- and my skin had thickened.
After three weeks, the novelty of refreshing cools has worn off. I am just about to join that club of people who have a cat's tolerance for cold. The people who look for a warm spot of sun to nap away the day.
But -- not today. Today there is work to be done.
