Winter means never having to shave your legs.

Thank god for winter. This is what I ‘m thinking as I get dressed to go out Friday night. Thank god for Minnesota. The land of “holy fuck it’s cold out, why isn’t that idiot wearing a hat?”

I love Minneapolis because we are large enough to be metropolitan, but small enough to lose that big city pretense once the first cold snap hits.

I trudge through the snow in my sensible, warm boots. I pass the weekender girly girls squealing as they stumble through snow banks in high heels and no coat. Silly little things don’t know that there are places to go where there is no cover charge or dress code. A place where the drinks are cheap and the men admire a woman who can wear an orange hunting cap with subtle irony and pair it with her grandmother’s handmade scarf with practicality and aplomb.

I get to the bar and blend right in with the other sensible sexy girls. We’ve figured out that most men don’t care what we wear as long as it’s easy to take off later on. And the men who do put that much importance on appearances will likely leave you for a fancier model later anyway. No thank you sir, I prefer a man who appreciates a woman for her sparkling conversation and choice of long underwear. What’s that baby? You like the earflaps on my hat? Well maybe I’ll keep it on while we get busy. The boots too? Kinky!

This is what goes through my head as I sit at the bar and observe the unstoppable mating rituals of my compatriots. I’m not here to meet anyone, I’ve got a man. A winter boyfriend if you will. Someone to keep warm with during these frigid months, someone to drink beers with on the couch before we do the old slap and tickle, someone who likes a girl with wooly hats and an aversion to frostbite.

Thank god for winter. A time when you can hibernate, gain weight, stop shaving your legs, cover it all up in layers of cotton and down and still get laid. God bless us, everyone.