Ice Potty

Over the last couple of months I’ve discovered that my bathroom is pretty much the warmest room in my apartment.  It has a vertical floor-to-ceiling heating pipe that makes it really cozy for performing one’s daily toilette and other natural and unnatural functions.  Now, when the ghost of my mother yells, “What are you doing in there?” I can legitimately yell back, “Staying warm, do you mind?”
 
Really, this winter has been a back-breaker so far.  I’ve lived in NYC since 1971 and I don’t recall so many days of single-digit temperatures.  I figured I was used to the cold but I guess I was fooling myself in thinking that 28 degrees is cold.  Trust me, 8 degrees is the number that curdles the blood and sinks into the bones.  My pioneering spirit is being put to the test this year and it’s no laughing matter.  And I’m failing the test.