I’ve always been a thin-blooded Florida boy. Not that I’m pulling out the parka as soon as the mercury dips below 70, but I also look at the recent snowpocalypse up north and think the odd hurricane or two is a small price to pay to avoid that. I don’t mind a day in the 40s or 50s, and it can get as cold as it wants overnight when I’m tucked away safe inside. But lower than that? You can keep it.
But lately I’ve found myself turning the heat on the second I can even remotely justify doing so. Maybe all the extra body weight I used to carry around was keeping me warm, but once it gets below 65 outside, I’m hitting the thermostat. I don’t just want to be comfortable, I want to be toasty. I’m paying for this apartment and the perfectly functional heater it has in it; why should I just throw another blanket on the bed? I can afford a little frivolous comfort.
I do sometimes wonder if this makes me a wimp. I walk to my office at work in a jacket and see tourists in shorts and t-shirts. I go out for a walk in the morning in sweats and see other people out in jogging shorts. And for a moment I wonder if perhaps I’m taking the cold too seriously, if I should toughen up a little. Then the wind kicks up and I conclude these people must be visiting from Siberia or something, and if millions of years of evolution have provided me with the wherewithal to put on a sweater, well, who am I to argue with Darwin?
As I type this, it’s 57 outside — 52 with the wind — and I have the heater comfortably set. You might laugh, but that’s okay. We’ll be back up into the 70s in a couple of days and all of this will be but a distant memory. Whereas your groundhog has doomed you all.