Cold enough to where if I want to mention it, I have to write out the number, because in conventional writing, single digits are treated in such a manner.
Seriously, nine degrees? Granted, I don’t dislike the cold, but even for me, this is a little bit of frigid.
The scary thing is that I remember the last time it hit single digits, and it was around this time last year; it was like seven degrees when I got back from Las Vegas, and my car’s ignition was definitely labored in the face of the bitter cold. Subsequently, within the next few weeks that arctic snap would also result in the Snowpocalypse which crippled the city under two inches of snow and a sheet of ice, making Atlanta the laughing stock of the planet for a quick breeze.
I’m reluctant to bring that part up, because frankly I’d rather not go through it again, despite the fact that there were hundreds of people that probably had it way worse than I did.
Regardless, it’s cold enough to warrant me brogging about it, which means it must be pretty cold. Or, I really wanted to make use of this screen cap I took this morning when I was on my way to work to show the approximate single digit temperature number that Atlanta had produced.
Like, it’s so cold that all the little nooks and crannies in which outside air creeps into my home is bringing my home’s temperature down noticeably. It’s so cold that I’m hesitant to do, just about anything that might be considered extraneous or unessential. It’s so cold that I even thought about foregoing my morning Starbucks walk, because it’s so cold that my kneecaps are perpetually chilled and I don’t like that. But foregoing my morning coffee vice is like foregoing breathing, so that didn’t solder on, but still; I thought about it.
