As I sit here swaddled in fleece and alpaca shavings, gazing through the window at the sterile blanket of snow that descended and covered the yard last night, I can't help but wonder: would I have been a successful paleo-indian? I know that I would not. Others in the tribe would resent my inability to leave my rustic bivouac during inclement weather, and would probably not be willing to share their winter berries and lake fish with me when they learned of my need for extra hides and luxury beaded garments. I'd have to have some extraordinary and womanly talents to get a mate. Of that I am almost completely certain.But I don't live in a teepee. That variety of domocile has been outlawed by the local authorities. This makes me sad and angry on some levels. If I had to haul water and collect firewood and kill various things to eke out an existence, I might be better at the cold weather thing.
Maybe I would be made of more durable and cold-resistant stuff if I had never set eyes on Macy's. It's an appealing idea to live a completely perishable life. Shelf life zilch. Eat your Mastadon as it comes. That's right. No Cuisinart deluxe chrome paneled coffeemakers filled with over-roasted Starbuck's Breakfast Blend. No sir. No cellophane baggies. No Swiffer Wet Jets. No virtual diversions, no paperwork, no Congress. But alas, no central heat.
