The desert spent most of the day in the mid 30s, with enough of a wind to make it feel like the mid 20s. Positively balmy from the perspective of, say, my New Hampshire readership, but for mid-elevation southern Arizona, it was frigid. Two days ago we had a raging sleet storm that covered the ground in pea-sized ice for a few minutes. Today it's sunny and chipper and Arctic.
If it's an occasionally dry heat in the summertime, it's also a very dry cold. I wake up and make a beeline for the water bottle in hopes it will convince my throat--which glued itself shut in protest overnight--to open up and play nice. I jump in the shower and the hot water feels sharp against my parched skin. Half a bottle of lotion later, my dermis says oh, did something just happen here I was supposed to notice?
Tonight promises a low of 21 or something, with tomorrow night's low expected to be a tad more stupid than that. The portable plants have been brought inside; the ground-bound ones have been shrouded and grimly bid adieu. I crack open the door and prod the dog. She glances over her shoulder just long enough to convey you have completely lost your mind and hightails it back to her spot near the flow from the living room heat vent. This being Arizona, where cold air is generally more highly valued than warm, the vents are situated high on the walls. I'm sure it's very comfortable up there somewhere by the ceiling.
Tea, soup, more tea, red wine, thick socks, blankets, extra pillows to pile on top. Getting in and out of bed has become complicated. Here's hoping my plumbing doesn't turn into a giant Otter Pop overnight.