Here And Not There

This morning I could see the cold before I could feel it. Outside, the air was dull but the trees were sharp. Their outline was crisp and thick branches looked brittle enough to break with just a tap.

Same with the sky and the mountains behind them; saturated like a puzzle but still wrapped in the plastic film the box comes in.

Negative nineteen with windchill.

Woooof.

I pulled on a hoodie, a vest, and then my puffy jacket. Grabbing my hat and gloves, I moved down the hall toward the door to let out the dogs I've been watching this week.

Under my breath, I actually muttered my thanks to not be working in the mountains today. It got caught in my throat, though, jagged edges of the morning scraping my esophagus while steam escaped skyward with a cough. I saw the dogs fan out to investigate the morning smells (and create a few of their own).

How were they not shivering?? 

They seemed perfectly content to go about their business, regardless of the frigid air gnawing at them. I swear I used to be like that, but I'm really not sure when it changed. Using the inside edge of both palms—the webbed part between my thumbs and index fingers—I adjusted my gloves, sliding them on more firmly. My eyelashes were frozen. Mustache, too. Eventually, the dogs moved to head back inside, tails still wagging.

As I sat down with my coffee and opened my laptop, I thought about it some more. Crossing my outstretched, slippered feet beneath the table, I felt myself defrosting. In my head, I was sitting in Corbet's Cabin atop Jackson Hole Mountain Resort at 10,450 feet, remembering a specific time when the bitter cold and blustery wind had pushed a bunch of people inside. Looking around, I remember making eye contact with a few friends who were working with clients, too. We'd shared a knowing grin from our tables throughout the small room.

The contrast was noticeable—the folks who worked in cold and the folks who'd hired us. All the clients shared a similar look, though not with each other. They were looking down at the table, or into their coffee, tea, or hot chocolate. Their shoulders were rolled forward, and their distant eyes all seemed to say "what the fuck am I doing here?" On that day, and many like them, I'd been the one to wag my tail and go about my business... choosing to be happy despite the circumstances. I'd knowingly been the reminder to everyone else that they could, too.

It's been years and years. Still, in the kitchen this morning, hands cradling the warmth of my coffee mug, I'm sure my distant eyes said something like "what the fuck am I doing here and not there?"

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Our Daily MAP Year Prompt
146/365

When's the last time a past version of you reminded present-day you of who you are?

onward.

If you know someone who'd appreciate this, pass it along. And if something stuck with you while reading, I'd love to know what it was. For more on this daily column and The MAP Year Project, read the backstory here.