Winter's Half Time, the mid point between the first daytime shivers of October and the dirty poems associated with May Day would probably be now.
Mid-February. Wherein Punxatawney Phil actually failed to see his shadow this year and prognosticated an early spring and a reprieve from my cookpot where the fucker was going to wind up had he seen anything other than a warming trend.
If winter were a football game, the half time cheerleaders would be blue-lipped and shivering, aching to get back into the team bus. A hasty "rah-rah-rah" and off they would scramble because, as much as we celebrate being halfway home to a climate humans can function in without the constant urge to self-immolate, its still fucking winter and its still cold, distilling behavioral urges down to climbing into the core of the hot water heater until June.
My furnace continues to mock me.
It knows that at some point in late April, I will venture down to the basement, providing the spring melt has not set a river running through the lowest level of Paramour, and sever its red-plated umbilical cord of a main shut off switch, giggling insanely and mentally composing an epithet-laden letter of revenge to the local utility provider, suggesting they save up their fat 'cause summer rations are a'coming.
But that's all in the future and for now we take cold comfort at being half way home. Yes, the fleece outer layer when removed still sticks like velcro to the flannel shirt to the t-shirt. You remove the shell when in the kitchen, cooking, because you flail about like Kenny with a longknife otherwise.
Hail, hail, half time of winter and let us pronounce that our "wardrobe malfunction" is merely the inadvertant wrapping of scarf over mouth muffling our hurling of obscenities at the heavens while shuffling to the end of the drive to retrieve the paper in minus ten degrees.
Boy, did things scramble back into body cavities that day.