It was seven degrees this morning and originally I was going to leave Raymond at home and go to the gym instead of going for a walk. It’s a block and a half to the gym, and warm in there, while walking the mile and back to the dog park was going to be cold. But when I stepped outside and realized the wind wasn’t blowing, I went back in to suit up.
My winter dog-walking outfit must be a sight. When Patrick died, I kept his really really nice North Face jacket, which is, understandably quite large on me. This is the genius of the jacket. It’s huge. It’s like wearing a bubble. With fleecy tights underneath my ski pants, and my vintage Patagonia reverse-fleece jacket under the ginormous coat, and a hat, and the hood pulled up over the hat, and my thick ragg wool mittens, I’m actually quite toasty in there. I must look like a troll since I am a short person wearing a lot of clothes, some of which is very large — and frankly I feel like a little kid in a snowsuit (remember that immobilized feeling?). But it works, and so I made a deal with Ray this morning — if the wind isn’t blowing, we’ll still walk. If the wind is blowing all bets are off because even bundled up I hate it when my face freezes.
So off we went this morning in the near-dark. Me in my pile o’clothing, and him skipping along like the animal he is. It was a beautiful morning — sunny and clear and sparkly snow and the Crazy Mountains all pink in the sunrise. Totally worth bundling up for — and it’s such a relief to be old enough to not care that I look goofy. Forty minutes outside in the fresh air looking at the sights and saying hi to my dog park friends. It’s the best part of my weekdays.