I think the person in charge of climate control at my workplace is orchestrating a maniacal plot to freeze us all where we stand, or sit.

Since the first comment regarding how uncomfortable it feels to occupy a poorly ventilated room with nine other people who refuse to hold their breath, however their lack of breathing might aid in decreasing the stale smell oozing from each work station, the temperature in the office has been below the comfort level of cool. A few days ago, I noticed my fingers were numb. In a vain attempt to increase the blood flow to my extremely frigid body, I quickly jumped from my desk and began to dance about the room, flailing arms and legs and other extremities, while my co-workers looked on empathetically. Yesterday I was able to avoid the tingling sensation in my fingers and toes, spending the majority of my second shift wrapped in a fleece spongebob throw one of my co-workers so conveniently left behind at the end of her shift.

While I am in no way suggesting that I desire to return to our prehistoric, pre-air conditioned office, I do have to laugh at the irony of finding myself staring out the window, shivering, watching our smoking, and now profusely sweating, clientele, envying the warmth they seem to be taking for granted and even disdaining. As a potential bonus to our office’s sub-polar environment, I do find myself consistently quoting temperature inspired quotes from movies as noteworthy as Bring It On.

And while I can’t be certain anyone else in the office even understands the references, I do succeed in entertaining myself on quite a regular basis. A feat, I’ve been recently told, which will allow me to still enjoy myself if I do ever fully alienate myself from society. Awesome.

I Said, “Brrr (clap, clap, clapclap), it’s cold in here (clap, clap, clapclap). There must be some Torros in the atmosphere.”