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.