Here it is November, from the Old Norse for “I’m freezing my nuts off, pass the akvavit.”
Sacred to Capilene, god of baselayers, November is the month in which one expends more time and energy unearthing long-buried sport-specific garments than actually engaging in the sport to which they are specific.
It’s a triathlon of sorts, and sportswear is not required for the first leg: finding the toilet in the dark.
“Whoops, nope, that’s not it. …”
Next leg: Not scaring the cat. This means putting on some clothes before heading to the kitchen to make coffee, because nobody, not even a cat, wants to see some wrinkly sack of snot, spasms, and bad ideas hobbling around in the dark with his leaky bidness hanging out, especially if he just peed in the bathroom trash can.
“Hm. Wool socks don’t slide smoove like butta through the old polyester jogging pants, do they? More like trying to shove overcooked spaghetti through shifter-cable housing. Shit, forgot underwear. (Do the Dance of the Sugar Plum Geezers, trying to pull the pants off over the wool socks, after which it’s time to pee again, this time in the toilet.) Goddamnit, did the little woman eBay all my long-sleeved pullovers? Nope, here they are, underneath the cat.”
And finally, after coffee, toast, and oatmeal: “The hell are my leg warmers? It’s too cold for knee warmers, but not cold enough for tights, and I can’t find those either. The wool socks stay on, if only because once I’m kitted up with winter bibs, leg warmers, and three long-sleeved jerseys I can’t bend over.”
This, of course, is when the toilet sings its siren song once again, with a tad more urgency. Flailing transpires. Superman never got out of a Clark Kent suit so fast. If this were an Olympic event I’d be on a Wheaties box for sure.
Oh, well. “Drit skjer (Shit happens)”, as the Vikings say. Pass the akvavit.
Mad Blog Media 
That’s good, really good. Those pictures you put in my head will require a 3 pound art gum to erase.
Thanks, matey. It all started with the annual reminder that my Darn Tough wool socks do not want to slide through my ancient Brooks jogging pants, which are my morning go-to when the temps dip below 40°. Then it just sort of took off, the way a cat will, for reasons known only to itself.
“sugar plum geezers”. Yes, a vision that will be difficult to extract even for my nuclear powered neuro eraser.
You can hear the music now, can’t you? That’s your earworm of the day.
Oh lawdy yes that melody is now gonna be permanent every single time I lurch out of bed for that wee-hours visit to the water closet. And I’ll surely hear it coursing through my semi-consciousness as I SIT DOWN* to make my first, but certainly not last contribution to the Septic Tank God of the new day.
*As they warn “no matter how you shake and dance the last few drops are in your pants”
Yup, that nighttime visit to the Reading Room has to be a sitdown affair. Hard to miss the terlet if you’re sitting on it. Although it can be done. …
the dance you describe is loads of fun on a long winter ride outside with only a fence post to cover the naughty bits. happened on two occasions. I am lucky no one called the constabulary or some moral authority. but you made me smile on a 35 degree day with rain coming down in NW Montana. A week more of this stuff,
O, yeah, been there, done that. A perfectly good handkerchief sacrificed to Folger, god of peristalsis. The ugliest pole dancer in the world.
You made Sandy laugh until the tears flowed. You still got the mojo mi amigo. Take it to the stage! You can do it and make some serious coin.
Hah. When I can get the women laughing I know I’ve hit the bullseye. I’ll have to show it to Herself, who is a real tough audience.
…once I’m kitted up with winter bibs, leg warmers, and three long-sleeved jerseys I can’t bend over.”
You know you’re overdressed when the wife needs a block and tackle to hoist you onto your bike.
Not sure if there’s a market for this other than me, or maybe it’s something WireCutter or Tom’s Guides could look into, but I need someone to tell me what socks slide best with sweatpants. Cuz I’ve done that dance before, one leg in and the other foot caught halfway, and one of these days I’m either breaking a hip or going through a window trying to dislodge
These Brooks jogging pants of mine have zippers at the cuff, and you’d think that after all the years I’ve owned them I’d have figured out that they’re easier to pull on with the cuffs unzipped. But noooooo. ….
Sixty is apparently when you get cold in places you never got cold before.
And having a dog that gets us up at 5:30 has made me painfully aware of this new normal.
did I say “us”? Apparently I have a mouse in my pocket, because we’ve had him 14 months, and I have had two liquid company on our boarding walk exactly twice.
https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B1051rzbC2GXrl
The Boss has always been an early riser, and after three decades I am finally at the point where I can get up at 5:30 without stroking out. But I much prefer staying dug in like a tick until 6 if I can manage it.
Any later than that and Miss Mia takes an interest in my whereabouts. To quote Nick Nolte in “48HRS,” “Yeah, yeah, I hear you, your voice carries.”
Yeah, I spend a lot of time trying to find a toilet lately, too. I’m on diuretics to prevent kidney stones because of my weird calcium metabolism that lets me destroy cars and trucks that run into me (3 totalled out and 2 more severely damaged but drivable) plus the water I need to drink to flush out those damned rocks and I’m making 8 or 9 trips to the loo a day. My recent hospital stay has prevented anything more athletic than a slow shuffle to the mailbox by the curb, so I’m not in need of any cold-weather athletic gear.
Jeez Louise, Opus, that sounds dreadful. Herself had a kidney stone in her youth and recommends that nobody ever grow one of them sumbitches.
Is that what sent you to the hospital? Do the whitecoats use ultrasound on the stones anymore? I heard once that this was a Thing, but it must have annoyed the cutters, who just can’t wait to unwrap us, get in there, and ramble.