I'll Bet My Life Would Sound Better If It Were Narrated

Pearl does not feel well, something she knows is real when she begins to refer to herself in the third person.  Please enjoy, then, a repost from 2010.  It was true then, and it's true now.
The streets are treacherous, my friend, and have taken it upon themselves to break the bones of both of the women next door (one ankle and one wrist apiece).
And here I am, laden with a yoga bag and my “bus” purse (large enough to hold my lunch but not big enough for a pony).
The narrator speaks in hushed tones:
“Armed carefully with her cash card, a lipstick, 10 pounds of various things she feels she must carry with her and her belaying rope, she picks her way carefully down the icy sidewalks, choosing the placement of her feet as carefully as the sherpas and mountain men who had gone on before her. Let’s follow as she negotiates these treacherous city streets.”
The name is Pearl.
Pearl Norgay.
The thought that someone like Morgan Freeman – or perhaps David Attenborough – is in a small studio somewhere, sipping tea and commenting on my life, helps me get through these “Hey! Is that the SUN shining?” days.
We do what we can to keep our strength up.
But what I would propose to you, my world-wide-like friends, is that in the same way winter is not for the faint of heart, it is also not for asthmatics, people who enjoy sensation in all their limbs – including the locally-endangered toes – or this strange breed of male insisting that shorts are year-‘round attire.
Yes. I recently saw a man, outside, wearing shorts.
Now, I am not a violent woman. And yet when the temperature is 3 degrees outside Fahrenheit (that's 16 below Celsius), the vision of this, my clueless neighbor, climbing out of his car to walk into the grocery store wearing a pair of shorts, a hoodie, and sandals, produces violent thoughts in me.
Something in me wants to punch him.
And before you think perhaps he had been to the gym and was just popping in for a quick Gatorade, I put to you while it was technically possible for this to be true, I would wager that it was not.
But what does my inner narrator say about it?
“Stepping lightly from the ladder that takes him from the driver’s seat to the tarmac, he scans the parking lot. Surely someone has seen him, remarked upon the impressive girth of his vehicle. Chuckling softly, he notes that, again, he has done well in his purchase of the largest mode of civilian transportation available. He steps away from the car, pressing the remote to lock it – BEEP BEEP – and observes with satisfaction the people who turn. They have, without doubt, noticed his casual dress, his expensive vehicle and have been made aware of his manly bearing. He enters the grocery store in pursuit of the elusive mesquite barbecued chicken – and this time – this time! – expenses be damned, he would buy potato chips as well.”
Everywhere, the people in my life are heading to warmer climes. Their narrators have tired of looking for synonyms for “cold”, “snow”, and “seasonal depression” and have given them leave to, well, leave. Just look at them! On their way to Vegas, just back from Hawaii, looking forward to trips to Puerto Rico, they have lost touch with the subtle insanity of winter.
But not me. I’m not going anywhere. I’m riding this SOB out.
And I’m gonna kick this season old-style.
Shhh. You hear that? Morgan is speaking again...
“Pearl carefully eyes the city bus, calculating which of her fellow riders is most apt to smell funny…”