On Winter Warmth

        Feeling warm in January is a rarity for me--a luxury, really.  A person with my heat-challenged body type--especially who has a radiator for a husband and both of whom want low utility bills--can only achieve real warmth with swaths of blankets and/or layers upon bulky layers of clothing.  At home during this season, I keep a heating pad, lap blanket, and a crocheted shawl and hand-warmies ready beside my chair at all times to supplement my layers, and as I read or work on my computer, I must still sometimes alternate sitting on each hand or placing them one at a time under my blanket to keep them comfortable as I go about my activities.
        Unfortunately, I cannot employ such heat methods at work; it doesn't look very professional when a receptionist/tutor sits on her hands, shivering (though I've had no choice but to do that on more than one occasion).  The building thermostat seems set to 62 year-round (Fahrenheit), and the automatic bathroom faucets seem determined to deter proper hand-washing with their nigh-freezing water.  I also have the necessary misfortune of a desk near a set of doors where I feel every draft that comes through the foyer.  I've taken to wearing Cuddl Duds beneath my pants and sweater as a matter of course, sometimes with an additional camisole, and I keep a cardigan and tea supplies ready in the building to bolster my internal temperature.  Alas--on the coldest days, that's still insufficient.

         I'm told I could generate more natural body heat through regular exercise, but there's something about the cold that makes me sedentary, eager to conserve energy and seek shelter under blankets, either in bed or within the warm grip of my armchair.  Thus, my primal need for heat trumps my reason's demand for healthy physical exertion.  Besides, I've found that exercise is only ever a short-term solution to the cold; my sweat or subsequent shower cool me quickly, and within a half hour, the cold drives me to don all those restrictive layers again.  During the warmer months, my primary source of exercise is walking to and from work, which is simply out of the question when the windchill remains below zero in the mornings--and sometimes through the rest of the day.  Who wants to arrive at work with painfully cold thighs and crazy, face-mask hair?  (Not that I own a face-mask.  Since a fashionable scarf isn't sufficient to keep my nose from numbing, perhaps I should invest in one--but I would hate to be mistaken for a robber, and again, there's the problem of the state my hair would be in afterward.)

        But today!  Ah, today has developed into one of those rare winter days that reaches the upper 50s, and the house's central heater has outdone itself with the help of our kitchen space heater.  Thus, here I sit in my armchair wearing a single layer (albeit covering me from wrists to toes), lap warmed by only a single blanket (a habit I sustain even on hot summer days).  My hands still radiate the warmth they soaked up while I washed dishes a short time ago, and the tea at my side warms whatever holdouts of chilliness still exist inside me.  I feel utterly content!
        A (traitorous) part of me wonders if I would know this pleasure without the cold to help me appreciate it.  "Here is evidence that not all discomfort is evil!" it argues.  (--though it wouldn't be so generous as to call 50 degrees "invigorating" as some do.  You know who you are.)  Perforce, I must (mock-grudgingly) acknowledge that the cold serves that (one!) beneficial purpose of "building character." Regrettably, though I've developed strategies to help me survive winter, I admit my character would probably be stronger if I ceased to complain about the cold.  But where's the fun in that?  Without our mock-arguments about temperature, I would have to find other ways to flirt with my husband.  Furthermore, without my grumble-prone perspective on winter warmth, I would have to find other topics to write about in my blog!