Unhappy feet

I am sitting at my desk in my cubicle. I have on jeans, sneakers (that's what they're called people - I don't play tennis in these), a long sleeved t-shirt, a fleece jacket (standard clothing attire if you live in Colorado), a blanket draped across my lap, and a heater set on high which is aimed in my general direction.

And I am freezing.

This is because the temperature outside of my cube is roughly 34 degrees. Or at least that's what it feels like. There is literally a draft of cold are whooshing by my cube. The temperature IN my cube is a warm 59 degrees thanks to the heater and the heat that my churning brain puts off.

My co-workers (people who are either currently going through menopause or are "man" enough not to whine about it being cold) are apparently perfectly fine. Lance commented that he could feel the breeze, but that it felt good. Good? What are you, a member of the polar bear society?

He's practically dancing a jig outside my cube, chatting happily with other sadists outside my cube as if to taunt me out into the cold. Well didn't that kid from Narnia fall from that? No, not either one of the girls. No, not the good one that saved the world. The one that was the bad kid - who got into the sleigh with the Ice Queen. Sure, he was also lured by "turkish delights" (which are, by the way, NOT delightful) but I'm pretty sure he was also lured out into the cold by Lance, a happily prancing Lance.

I'm not falling for it.

If you need me, I'll be searching Google for office appropriate North Face gear.