Freezing my balls off

It’s cold outside. Very cold. The temperature is dropping and the winds are picking up. There’s a difference of almost ten degrees from a couple of days ago. Yet, I’m leaving the confines of my home and trekking outdoors to meet up with G.

I dress warmly, with several layers, but don’t want to resemble a marshmallow. The down-filled parka stays at home. A shirt, a sweater, a pair of longer boxer-briefs, thicker jeans, a padded jacket, toque, scarf and gloves is what I have on.

The drive downtown isn’t bad, since I have the heater inside the car directing hot air towards the windshield and my feet. When I leave the car… that’s another story. It’s even colder than before.

Since G is supposed to call me at 7 p.m. to know where we’re meeting before going out, I walk up and down Yonge Street, going into a couple of stores. I stop at College Park and sit down, against a wall, reading a copy of Now Magazine.

As the time passes, I begin to wonder what happened to G. It’s been 20 minutes. Maybe something happened. Maybe G forgot, I think. I try to call, but there’s no answer. To kill time, I walk up to the Manulife Centre.

I’d rather be inside a building with heat instead of walking outside, freezing my balls off. The only benefits are the gusts of wind that immobilize my face, producing a Botox-like effect. Nicole Kidman should be so lucky. But moving helps produce friction (and therefore, heat).

If G calls, I can take the subway down, I try to convince myself I’m not being ditched.

A few magazines are read and I look at my phone to see if there are any missed calls. No. Not one. I begin to feel agitated and tense. The words on the page aren’t doing anything to help me forget what’s happening. In order to clear my head of these thoughts, I head back outside to the congested noise of the street.

I walk to the Eaton’s Centre because I know I can use the Apple Store’s computers to check my e-mail in case there’s a message.

At the Apple Store, I log onto my account and check if there are any new messages. There are three, but none are from G. Damnit. What the fuck is going on? You better not be ditching me after I hauled my ass outside to meet up.

Out of frustration and desperation, I write a quick e-mail asking if things are ok. Additionally, I throw in that I’ve been waiting for two hours in the cold. It’s very passive-aggressive, but it’s no use. I was ditched.

When I get home, I shed my layers of clothing and check my e-mail one last time before going off to bed. There’s nothing new in my inbox. With that, I delete all of the correspondence between me and G. It’s done in a calm manner, as if to say, I wash my hands of you.

On Sunday morning, I receive an e-mail from G with an excuse about a marathon. I suspect it had nothing to do with running. My balls defrost while I write my curt reply that can castrate any man from 100 miles away...