Witchy Woman

Today's word: water witch.  Definition: One who claims to be able to find water by means of a divining rod; a dowser.

I thought this word was super appropriate this afternoon, since it was raining when I got off the bus.  I felt my mood go from "You know, work was pretty good today . . ." to "Motherf*#king rain!"  This reaction wasn't because it feels like all it's done this fall is piss down water, and it's not because I feel like we got cheated out of autumn leaves, when it's my favorite season.  It's because, for lack of a better term, I think I could rightly be called a water witch.  

Meaning, in an altered definition, that as soon as I get rained on, I become ill-tempered and slightly hostile.  There are very few things I hate more than being wet and clothed.  Aside from just feeling generally icky, my wavy hair responds schitzophrenically to moisture and it's difficult to navigate through raindrop-splattered glasses.  One of the most miserable two hours of my life was the morning I got caught in the rain at the Twin Cities Marathon, waiting for my sister's shitty boyfriend to run by and cursing, cursing, cursing myself for being too much of an idiot to bring an umbrella. Completely my fault, of course, I'm not saying otherwise.  I only wish she'd broken up with him before the race and not four months after.

I'm typically a good sport about most things.  I go places and do things I'm not super jazzed about, I eat places that are "meh," I rally from being dog tired, all because the people I'm with want to do stuff.  I hope my friends would say that I'm not a complainer.  But the only times you'll probably encounter a rather grumpy version of me is when I'm wet.

Or cold.  For as much as I'm cat-like in a downpour, I'm almost reptilian in my inability to regulate my body temperature.  One of my friends once told me, "We could wrap you in a buffalo-skin robe and set it on fire and you'd still be cold."  It's true.  I'm a shiver bunny.  My family claims that I was never this much of a wuss until I spent a very long winter in a bone-chilling 34-degree house in Japan. All I know is, if it's below freezing and you've planned an outdoor activity, count me out.  I went to the winter carnival about six years ago.  It was 15 degrees outside. As I watched the deliriously happy ice skaters, I could barely restrain myself from yelling, "What's wrong with you people!?"

It's not that I don't admire the hardy Minnesotans that surround me on all sides.  I do.  And it's not that I don't like snow.  I do.  But I like snow when it's outside and I'm inside, warm and toasty with my free heat, drinking a hot chocolate, curled up in a blanket with a book.

When people ask me which I would rather be, too hot or too cold, I always choose hot.  Because although I sometimes feel angry and a bit crazy when it's sweltering, when I'm cold, I lose all hope that I will ever, ever be warm again. (By the way, have you ever noticed how much people swear when it's freezing? You rarely yell "Dammit, it's hot!" But walk outside in the middle of  February and I dare you not to shout "F*#k it's cold!")

So evidently we've established that I have about a 10-degeee window of physical comfort. Maybe that makes me a snow witch in addition to a water witch.  Or maybe an ice queen.  If you want to bestow frigid royalty on me, I'll take it.  Just don't make me live at the ice palace.