I hate being
cold. And “hate” may not even be an
accurate word. The phrase “I hate being
cold” almost sounds like the beginnings of a love poem compared to the feelings
I have around the sensation of chilliness.
I mean, I absolutely DETEST being cold from the bottom of my wimpy,
skinny soul. Not only do I shiver and
whine, but the inner core of every cellular structure in my body feels so
assaulted and immobilized by an icy breeze, that I feel less than
functional. And the thing is, I am
cold…all the time. So why, why do I live
in Seattle where damp and wintry days make up the bulk of our year, even in summer? Well, first off, I have a steady job and own
a home (which is usually freezing). But
secondly, Seattle has this way of convincing you to stay for the 9 days of the
year when it’s just fucking beyond belief gorgeous. It’s like a vicious lover who treats you
poorly and doesn’t call, but when he shows up in that t-shirt, jeans and
windblown hair, damn, he just looks so good, you can’t leave. So I suffer through the fall and winter
months, a heating pad tucked under the covers at night, a pair of bootie
slippers at the bedside ready for toes
to be submerged into after surfacing from underneath the down comforter that I
insist on despite the fact that it makes my husband, Keith a tad sneezy. Long underwear, close fitting tees and, my
latest discovery, “arm warmers” are all hidden under my outer layer of clothing
making me a good inch thicker in every direction, and all the more resentful of the sundresses
and shorts gathering dust in the closet.
