From now on, I'm defining the temperature outside by how much it sucks wearing pants.
Because almost as much as I hate peeling off a pair of sweaty jeans in dead heat August (like the outter layer of an onion, where you just have to cut the damn thing right off) there might just be more misery building up when cold pants graze bare legs.
(Originally, I had this plan to plot certain points across the plane of a Cartesian coordinate system, like so:
not at all sucky, 68 degrees) but it was too complicated to try to look up relevant results and don't feel like being quasi-trigonometrical anymore.)
Cold pants are never a continuous torture; they usually sneak up on you after you've remained stationary in the freeze for a bit. Maybe you're crossing a street and waiting for a long traffic light. Maybe you're stealing a secret cigarette in an alley behind your office building which you never do unless you really fucking hate the color printer.
(Gaahhh, maybe I should wear a bib when I eat my lunch so I don't drop ramen noodles down my fucking cleavage. I look like a jackass, sitting here digging around. Slippery little dbags.)
(I am a parenthetical mastermind today)
But either way, you stand there, looking around and watching everyone walk waddle in their winter gear, all puffy and wrapped (man I love winter: everyone looks like a big fat present), and you slowly and slightly tilt until your pants aren't touching your legs, frozen a quarter of an inch away from your skin. It's fun, because it's like, "Ha, I'm naked under these pants." And you are, I mean, everyone is naked under their pants, but sometimes just thinking naked makes you giggle because you're very immature for your age.
So eventually it's time to walk again, and as you lift your leg to take that first step your froze-ass pants slice up your leg and you mouth a silent, fuck. Because now you're even colder than before, and you've got the icey pants to prove it.
Mongo would say I need long johns. We've discussed this, briefly via blog, and I say they're weak. But if long johns prevent cold pants syndrome, well, then why the hell not? Is it worth being a wuss all day just to thwart the menace of cold pants for a fraction of a minute?
This is obviously a decision best made while staring into the bleak, empty pockets of my wallet.
Cold pants win.