So yesterday I was farting around online, looking for people to IM and compulsively checking Facebook, when my baby sister Molly

posted something about watching the meteor shower out by Castle Island. Now, I’m not a person who gets really into astronomy (or anything, for that matter, but let’s put depressive malaise to one side and continue on with the story), but the prospect of being somewhere weird at some bizarre hour of the night was incredibly tantalizing to me. I brewed a pot of coffee, grabbed a bottle of wine, and headed over to meet her in Dorchester. I wore a tank top, a sweater, and my heaviest furry sweatshirt hoodie. I also wore leggings underneath my jeans for extra warmth.

What am I missing here ? Anyone? (Hint: look at the title of this post!)

SOCKS.

I made the conscious decision to do this mystery midnight seaside walk WITHOUT SOCKS. I mean, it wasn’t like I forgot about them or anything, I literally thought about it and was like, “NAH, WHO NEEDS EM. I GOT MY LEGGINGS.” Let me tell you, that was a dumb, dumb move.

As it turned out, we all (myself, Molly, and her two roommates) (who have an awesome band) underestimated not only the cold but also the windchill. Halfway out to the dock we were all shivering, and we spent more time trying to hide from the wind than we did looking at the sky. Like, who’d have thought, there’s a fucking BREEZE out here in THE MIDDLE OF THE OCEAN. Lighting a cigarette was an exercise in futility, and the cold had penetrated all my layers. After five minutes, I could no longer feel my little toes. After 20 minutes, I could no longer feel my feet. I lay down on the asphalt and thought about frostbite and that really cold day in North Dakota and I watched some meteors fall across the sky and we all laughed and laughed, and then I thought: this is definitely the best time I’ve had in a long time. Despite the feet thing.