The Little Boy with no gifts got himself cast as the main character of our advent literature this year and he will be back this evening, I hope, after my workout. I plan a three hour Christmas gift to myself this time; one hour with my trainer, one hour of body pump and one hour of body combat.
The problem with endorphins? They come only when we summon them and they ration themselves in niggardly fashion (oh, get a dictionary; it's not a racial epithet and we do not have those here at aintsobad). When the endorphins hit this evening, the Little Boy with no gifts will no doubt emerge again, as the trance like state of his catharsis morphs him from perilously unbalanced to totally estranged.
I think mostly I live among cowards, this human race. I think he will say something like that before long.
As for the cold weather in Texas, it is my fault. I wanted overcast skies, whipping winds and biting chills for Advent this year. I longed to wear my red muffler and gloves, to bundle my emaciated frame all snuggled in my long, cheap great-coat. My inner longing saw me ready to sit in a book store window with a copy of Manchester in my hands and one of William Lee Miller on the table, sipping hot tea and dreamily watching the thin-bloods of my race run like wretched ragamuffins from car to shop, their gifts this year hard bought against a stern atmospheric chill.
So, it is my fault you are freezing and I laugh at your distress, encased as I am in my soft garments of heavy wool, with no reason to go out, nor any wanting to feel the bitter kiss of God's good north wind.
Will that keep you for an afternoon?