I raked up the leaves in the front yard this morning for what I hope is the last time this season. It was sixteen degrees, less whatever windchill factor there was. And it really wasn’t that bad.
Last week, I left work to go for a jog in the park. It was forty-three degrees, and I remember thinking to myself that it was actually rather pleasant outside. This is from a man who, when living in Houston, considered forty-five degrees to be pretty much the limit of human endurance.
I’m not sure if I’m getting tougher or softer.
