It is cold to the point of ridiculousness in my office. In the whole building, as a matter of fact. I'm wearing a wrap around my shoulders, my jacket over my lap, my boss' huge wool (yes, I know, but I'm too cold to be self-righteous) wrap around and on top of everything, and GLOVES. I am typing in gloves. Thin gloves, to be sure, but unless I work in a warehouse, I should not have to wear gloves to keep warm at work.
Maintenance hopes to get the temperature above 68° (Fahrenheit, y'all). I know that may seem positively tropical to some of you, but it's only October and my ladybits are going numb.
I am a warm-weather creature. Always have been. I was born in July, and the languid heat of that month must have soaked into my bones. I am happiest during the balmy days of spring and summer, where the question is, "What else can I take off?" instead of, "Sweet Jesus, do I even own any more clothes to put on?!" I prefer running around in flip-flops and sundresses, not bundling up and doing my best yeti impression.
I must admit defeat: I am officially finished with cute work clothes. Goodbye, sweet little flats and classic button-down shirts. From here until April, it's knee socks, combat boots, and thick fuzzy sweaters. And possibly an illegal space heater as well.
Please, everyone, for the love of me (if no one else), go vegan. Global warming has got our seasons all fucked up, and we have no one but ourselves to thank for it. If you can save me from another winter of agonized shivering, I'll bake you cookies and give you Eskimo kisses.