Thanks, socks.

I grew up in Colorado, so I know about cold.  Winter is supposed to be cold.  I used to think I liked cold.  I still miss snow all the time.

But I realized a few years ago that I was more grouchy than I should be in the winter. Seasonal affect disorder, maybe?  I made less good decisions, felt less social, didn’t like to leave the house, had a harder time falling asleep.

I tried several different things until I found my Oprah ‘ah-ha’ moment: warm socks. All that trouble because I had, quite literally, cold feet.  Now, so long as I remember my socks, I can handle most anything.

Most anything … except when kid bedtime extends past 10 p.m., people spell things incorrectly on purpose (especially with “x” or “z”), the New England Patriots, waiting in one-way construction traffic on Green Level West Road in the morning on the way to school, when James makes eggs for breakfast way before I am ready so that by the time I get to the kitchen they are lukewarm and the texture makes me gag but I feel like I should eat them any way, when … I have a torrent of ideas here, actually, and just realized that it might be because I am barefoot.  Off to remedy my attitude with the fuzzy socks I got from Santa.)

Talk to me. Seriously. Mostly in the form of compliments.