In 2013, it happened just before Christmas. Last year, it was the second week in November. The unseasonable warmth of this winter had me wondering if this week would ever come.
It has at last.
This, finally, is the week my face becomes a forecast.
I’ve for the past 10 years made it my custom to begin growing a full beard the instant I see in the five-day forecast three consecutive days with highs in or below the chilly 20s.
There it was on Sunday, high temperatures that ran 45, 32, 25, 16, 16. The long range forecast shows nothing in the 40s.
So the beard will now remain until the forecast shows three consecutive warming days in the 50s. That’s just how I do it.
Until then my face will look like Groundhog Phil launched out of his hole like a rodent rocket, affixed himself between my ears and just hung on for dear life.
If past winters are any indication, I’ll now have the full beard through at least mid-March. That’s 10 weeks where if I give my chin a thoughtful stroking, tiny bits of pretzel, chicken bones and whole cuts of pepperoni pizza might slam to the floor.
My beard will not be one favored by the trendy metrosexuals. It’ll not be trim and tidy. No, it’ll sprawl and will give my face a wild and untamed look. My face in winter will resemble my lawn in summer.
I do this because growing a beard warms the one part of the body we expose to the elements that can’t be conveniently covered.
I do it to warm the face.
It’s wonderful. It’s like wearing a thick woolly scarf with an unshifting mouth hole to allow for communication, respiration and winter beer guzzling.
Winter is the only season that makes every day feel like you and Mother Nature are engaged in a four-month bout of Greco-Roman wrestling.
It starts with the way we dress.
To shovel the driveway this morning, I donned three layers and six garments with a total of 12 pockets.
That many pockets pose a logistical problem anytime I try and remember where I put my car keys. The situation requires I perform what I’ve come to call “The Arctic Macarena,” a stationary dance I do where I with both hands pat myself down all over like a TSA agent does to a suspicious looking granny.
The only thing worse is standing in front of one of those charming trough urinals in the men’s room at Heinz Field and having to frantically search through all those layers for something even more dear than car keys.
Trying to make sanitary urination possible in winter always reminds me of the of the “Get Smart” opening where agent Maxwell Smart keeps walking through six or seven sets of doors only with the urgency magnified about 10 fold.
That’s why one day I’d like to be able to shed all my layers and simply wear fur.
Understand, I don’t want risk angering my friends at PETA.
(Gratuitous @8days2amish PETA tweet: “No excess yeast is used in the making of pita bread. No animals were harmed in the making of PETA bread.”)
I don’t want to buy fur. I want to grow it.
All over.
My winter dream is to one day grow a full-body fur so thick, luxuriant and warming I wouldn’t need to wearing anything out of doors ever again.
Well, maybe just my Pirate cap.
Think of the convenience.
It takes me about 15 minutes to dress to shovel the driveway. You strive to cover every inch of exposed flesh. You dig around deep in the closet hamper for scarves, hats and matching gloves.
Then when you’re all done you wind up feeling like poor little Randy from “A Christmas Story,” a tick about to burst.
Full-body fur is far superior.
Of course, the look wouldn’t be without its fashion challenges.
I’d still need a place to put my car keys and other essentials. That means furry Chris will need either a purse or a fanny pack.
The question is which would provoke fewer jeers in the chilly trough lines at Heinz Field?
The correct answer’s important.
I wouldn’t want anyone to go messin’ with Sasquatch.
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2 comments:
What does Val think of your desire to be a "furry"?
She thinks the ideas repulsive and I should start shaving my back.
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