The air is crisp enough for me to watch the steam of my breath as it catches and vaporizes the mist of snow that falls in a twirl of slow-motion rain all around me. I see this and realize that my sudden need to urinate is palpable; my normally hot, impetuous blood is being slowly evicted from my veins, replaced with the acidy, dispassionate pee of my over-burdened bladder. Parent-flanked children are grabbing at the miniature snowflakes in wonder as I push through gravity and walk towards the nearby washroom as though carrying nitroglycerin in my pants. Purposeless teenagers lounge on new-look restaurant seats and impede my progress with their aimless dawdling, as does the slick tile that apparently wasn’t meant to carry slippery boot-soles across its length. I, however, persevere and am immediately rewarded with a stream of yellow justice that rivals the output of a hammer-hole in a dam, a flow that seems to drain the paleness from my face, restoring me to my apple-cheeked glory, allowing me and my cheeks to once again be kissed by the December mist without worry of possibly-impending social-awkwardness.