"Like, the NUMBER seven?!"

This was my response when I woke up this morning and my husband told me the wind chill was seven. My brain simply could not compute how that was possible. But once I walked outside to go to my car, I fully understood what he meant.

I am certainly not complaining, though. For nine years, I griped about there not being any seasons in Texas other than hot. So now that I am finally experiencing an actual winter again, I am going to put on my scarf and gloves and face the biting cold like a champ.