I am basically cold 90% of the time. I can sometimes be found in the office still wearing my coat and scarf. My bosses poke fun at the space heater I keep under my desk year round. I have mastered the art of typing while wearing gloves. I do not enjoy being cold. I do not enjoy winter. Especially in this mountain town when it starts in October, apparently, and lasts until June.
When I lived alone, my dissatisfaction with winter wasn't so much of a problem for others. I could go home from work and pout about the weather all night long if I wanted to. And I would. I'd snuggle up in my favorite corner of the couch like Sheldon Cooper, crank up the gas stove, and drink hot water. No one cared what I did. There was no one around to see me mope about the fact that it was dark at 6:30, or that the sun never did find its way around the clouds that day.
But now I'm a gypsy, and at least currently, this gypsy is living with other people. Those other people notice when I'm being cranky about the cold temperatures and short days. They are beginning to wonder where I am when I come home from work and head straight to my room to curl up under the blankets in a desperate attempt to get warm.
When I live with other people, they insist I crawl out of my hole and join them for dinner. When I live with other people, they wonder why I don't light a fire in the wood stove if I'm cold. They don't know about my knack for catching my thumbnail on fire when I lite a match, or that my idea of a heat source contains an on/off switch.
|In case you can't tell, that's a forced smile on my face.|
It'd probably help if I could figure out where I packed my staples of winter survival, my wool pants and sweaters and puffy down coat and warm boots.