It was a cold December morning when I rode my motorcycle onto the interstate. My hands began to freeze beneath my two layers of gloves before I reached the five mile mark.
At the 20 mile mark, I started talking to myself.
How long does it take before frostbite starts to set in? I asked myself as the world blew past me at ninety miles an hour. I think this wind is giving me frostbite. The only thing I can feel under my gloves is pain.
Don’t be ridiculous, you can’t get frostbite if there’s no frost, I replied. It’s not called windbite.
It’s thirty-four degrees and there’s a windchill factor involved, I argued. It might be frostbite. And look! There’s frost right over there!
On either side of the highway, long rows of planted crops were sporting a very festive shade of white.
Well, shit I thought. I guess it could be frostbite.
Epilogue: When I arrived at my destination, I went inside and ran hot water over my hands for ten minutes and felt better. No fingers were lost. For a while, I was worried about my toes, but they’re still attached as well.
Cynical Idealism 
Felt that way at the Penn State football game two weeks ago. The students all stand on the metal bench throughout the entire game. Do you know what you call a chunk of flanged cold metal when you attach it to something? A heat sink. Do you know what it does? It makes things cold.
I’m surprised I didn’t bring my toes back home in a bag.
I’ve been trying to decide if being cold and stationary is worse than being cold and moving quickly.
I can’t decide. They both sound so unpleasant!