To Russia with Love

It's official.
I'm no longer SAD. I think I'm delusional...I'm seeing things, surely.
Right?
One poke of my head out the door would actually prove my firm grip on reality (ha!) and confirm the number on my car'd digital thermometer.
Nineteen degrees.
Let me repeat that.
Nineteen. Degrees.
Nineteen.
Nineteen.
I think I'm in hell.
I think the Ruskis are laughing.
They're exacting their revenge on us poor little wimps, clinking vodka shots and snuggling into their fur-lined boots and heavy coats to watch the show.
They drink.
We shiver.
I think I like their idea better.
Tempted as I am to test out the theory that Russia's favorite tonic keeps you warm, I think I might have to pass. Something tells me vodka and coherent writing are mutually exclusive.
In my case, at least. 
I have a feeling it would lave me comatose, rather that cognizant. And though the thought might be fun, I have far too much to do to slam the shots at the rate it would take to keep me warm.
And so I sit, stone cold sober, sucking down coffee and tea as I try not to lose any fingers to frostbite. Emphasis on the cold part.
Heavy emphasis on the cold part.
Even my laptop is cold.
Aluminum casing gets pretty darn frigid when you leave it in the car overnight, since metal is a conductor. So when I turn on my laptop in the morning, its warming up––literally.
Where am I going on this rambling rant about the cold?
I think that there's something to be learned in all of this––gratitude.
Gratitude that this is an anomaly, and not the norm.
Gratitude that there are days on the five-day forecast that will be far more moderate in temperature.
Gratitude that there is coffee and tea, and that I have a safe, warm place to go.
So before I sign off, I say this––Russia, I solute you. 
At this moment, we are comrades.
Raise your glass in a toast, as I raise my mug.
Here's to finding cheer in the chill.