Dang, It's Cold!

You know it’s cold when…

Your horse has icicles hanging from his whiskers like he just lost a frozen spaghetti-eating contest. The dogs break the sound barrier sprinting to the barn. Even their fur has goosebumps. And the chickens? They don’t even cluck until after 8 a.m.—just a bunch of fluffy bowling balls glaring at me from their perch like, “You first, lady.”

The thermometer read -17°F this morning. That’s seventeen below. And around here, that’s what we call light jacket weather. Honestly, it’s been such a mild winter, I’ve caught myself bragging, “At least it’s not -40!” like that’s a reasonable sentence for a human being to say.

But speaking of -40. . .

Let me take you on a magical journey back to a time when it was -40°F and I was brilliantly standing outside in my bathrobe and slippers. Yes. Robe. Slippers. Trash bag in hand. Clearly, I was nominated for the Darwin Awards and just needed that final push.

All I had to do was toss the garbage in the can and get back inside. Easy peasy. Except… click. That sneaky little door lock, which I hadn’t turned but must’ve nudged in just the wrong way, decided today was the day to flex its independence.

I was locked out. In -40°F temperature. In slippers made from whatever material disintegrates first in a strong breeze. My brain immediately fired up the list of terrible ideas:

1. Walk half a mile to the neighbor’s? Sure, if I was hoping to be found next spring as a tragic cautionary tale.

2. Hotwire the truck? Lady, you can’t even pair Bluetooth earbuds.

3. Smash a window? Now that had potential. I mean, what’s a little glass shard in your sock if it means survival?

So I hustle—shuffle really, because frostbite was already tap dancing on my toes—over to the workshop, grab a hammer, and march back to the house with the same determination as Jack Nicholson at the end of The Shining. I raise the hammer, ready to channel my inner Nicholson, but I figure I should at least check in with the Big Guy before I go full psycho on my thermal-pane glass.

So I look up at the sky and mutter, “Okay, God. If You’ve got a better idea, now would be a good time to share.”

Clear as a bell in my frozen little brain: “Hit the door handle.”

Say what?

“HIT THE DOOR HANDLE!”

Now let me tell you something about metal at -40. It doesn’t bend. It doesn’t dull. It goes from “functional hardware” to “glass candy sculpture” real fast. I whapped that doorknob once—once—and it disintegrated into a gazillion pieces.

Second tap? Latch popped. Door swung open. Warmth, glorious warmth! I fell through the threshold like a half-thawed fish flopping back into a lake, sobbing from relief and frost-nibbled dignity.

And what did it cost me? Just a door handle. A small price to pay for a story I can now drag out every time someone complains that it’s “a little chilly.”

Moral of the story?

1. Always check the lock.

2. Hide a spare key somewhere even your chickens don’t know about.

3. And if you find yourself in a robe with a hammer, maybe pause and say a prayer before you go full Hulk.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to sit by the woodstove in six layers of flannel and conduct a life crisis inventory.

Stay frosty, my friends. But, like, not literally.

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