It is 7 p.m. at night and I am freezing. Our thermostat is registering 70 degrees, but it lies. It's dropping into the lower 30's tonight and that's about what my internal body temperature is at. Once my body gets the first whiff of winter air, it's all over. My fingers, feet, and butt go numb--and stay numb--until the spring thaw.
Which is why I refuse to move from the coach. I've finally figured it out. For years I've blamed the early darkness on my winter lethargy, offering the darkness outside as the reason I never left the house or had a productive moment after 5:30 p.m. But I've come to realize that darkness isn't the issue. I can deal with dark. It's the freaking cold that's rendered me immobile.
I was on the couch this evening, watching bad TV. I don't want to be watching this, I thought to myself. I want to be upstairs, working.
And I did. I really wanted to work. But that would have required me leaving the nest of warmth I'd created under the couch blanket, setting my feet on ice-cold hardwood floors that would numb them on contact, and feeling the rush of cold fill the space around me. So forget it. I found a Bobby Flay cooking show and settled in.
I truly, truly love our 100 year old house but mother-of-God, it's cold. We have cracks under doors and windows and air seeps in and seeps out at about an even rate of exchange. And even if we said "gas bill and conservation efforts be damned," and cranked the heat up to 90, it wouldn't make that much of a difference. My body has tasted winter. My nose will be cold from now until June. I will randomly turn on hot water faucets and stick my hands under them until they're red and chapped in an effort to warm them up. And Blair--poor, poor Blair. Give the man your pity.
He's the one who has to deal with my ice-cold feet in bed at night.
With my best greetings from the land of the couch, I remain yours truly,