Let the record show that on the 7th March, 2019 I have never been so cold in my life. Those smiles? Fake. The internet is a total lie everyone, don’t ever forget it.
I should have known this was going to be a terrible idea. The optimist in me was screaming to seize the day and make the most of our time in the big city whilst my goosebumps were simultaneously crucifying my decision to walk the Brooklyn Bridge on the coldest day during our visit. I actually can’t help but be eternally grateful to Tim for always sacrificing the warmth of his coat pockets to take pictures for me. Here I am, gallivanting along with my hands stuffed snugly into the warmth of my coat while my Instagram husband is facing the elements. What do they say about Not All Heros Wear Capes?
-8 was the temp. Then the wind came. Holy moly that wind ripped straight through my polyester blend jumper layers and straight into my soul it was so cold. I think when we finally warmed our hands in the Starbucks at the end of the bridge on the opposite end and dared to take our phones out of our pockets the wind chill recorded “Feels Like” temps of -14. What was worse about the whole debacle of walking the bridge over to Manhattan was that the worst of it hit when we were approximately half way. Never have I ever wanted to pack it and call defeat. Jack, or the little prince, was so warm and content asleep in his fur lined snow suit, fleece lined pram sleeping bag and industrial strength plastic pram wind cover that I’ve never been more envious of a small child in my life. We were at the crucial midway point of the walk where I even stopped to ask Tim if it was worth continuing to the end or whether we should just retreat back the way we came and head back home to the warmth and call it a day. He saw no point in turning back as it was going to suck just as much whether we were walking forwards or backwards, so we pushed ahead. Us Dentons, we’re no quitters.
I don’t know if Tim was trying to lighten the frosty mood, or if he really just needed to reference exactly how cold he was feeling at the time, when he compared our current conditions to those of his rugby playing days when we lived in London. He proceeded to tell me “now I never usually mind the cold, and I’ve even played rugby in the snow, but this, this is unbearable”. Maybe it was the fact that we didn’t have a swig of whiskey to get us going beforehand, but that day we were broken. Broken by a bridge called Brooklyn.