Acclimation is a double edged sword.

Within days of moving to the frozen north, I find myself frolicking through snow covered parking lots wearing only a sweatshirt and spouting steam from my nostrils like a diseased water buffalo. Having grown up hip deep in snow for nine-odd years, I find it simple to ease back into the habit of grabbing for mittens to check the contents of the fridge. Acclimation is good for these reasons. Otherwise, I might find myself carrying a heat rock everywhere, like an iguana.

To my dad's disapproval, I have also acclimated to another aspect of my life. Never have I fallen into something with such ease and enthusiasm. No, I am not talking about my punk phase from college. I am, of course, referring to unemployment. Oh blessed days of sweet nothingness. 'Tis to you I drink this champagne toast at 9:45 AM bedecked with mismatched slippers and tatty nightgown. I grieve for the fact that your days are numbered.