I rode bike to school this morning even though the temperature, which was slated to rise to nearly sixty by the afternoon, hadn’t yet met my minimum requirement of twenty-five degrees.
It was definitely cold, out there at twenty-one degrees. My fingers and toes required constant wiggling; my goatee touted ice crystals; only once did I panic–there was nothing else to do–when I found myself crossing ice spots.
This afternoon, then, I found myself in balmy fifty-eight-degree sunshine–but buffeted head-on by the very winds that chased out the cold, I reckon.
I definitely felt not too bad about having eaten the Pop-Tarts left over from yesterday’s pre-writing-test sugar injection into my school’s student body–even though I heard on an NPR health program last weekend that “Pop-Tarts are not a breakfast food.”
