A lot of people like snow. I find it to be an unnecessary freezing of water. — Carl ReinerA frozen tundra, a snowy whisper: I cross the arctic just in slippers. Goosebumps, shivers, icy feel, replaced my chest with frozen steel. My breath is foggy, fingers numb; warmth, I fear, will never come The cold does have infernal wrath; Damn, our broken thermostat!
If you didn’t know, those are a few of the verses cut from Dante Alighieri’s famous poem about his fictional descent into hell, Dante’s Inferno. Apparently, thermostats weren’t invented back then so none of his readers could relate to it.
However, I, living in a house with a broken furnace, can relate exceptionally well.
Every night before I go to bed, I have to do 55 pushups, 85 sit-ups, and half a dozen jumping jacks to immunize my body to the horrendous cold of my sheets. And these sheets are flannel.
In the morning, I repeat this process, all under the cover of my five blankets, before I hop out of bed and quickly put on pajama pants, sweatpants, wool socks, slippers, a long-sleeve shirt, a hooded sweatshirt, a jacket, and a beanie.
And, no, I am not being a baby.
You see, I am one of the very few human beings on this planet to have—You’re right. I do possess a number of these skills that distinguish me from the rest of the world, but I will focus on just the one pertinent to this post:
My body temperature runs about a degree colder than the average person.
I know. Pretty amazing—the start of a super hero in the making (my powers being: doesn’t sweat as much in work outs, complains about being cold all the time, and really has no super powers at all).
However, my body temperature isn’t the only reason I’m so cold at night…and in the morning…and when I’m doing all my writing. You see, my room is in the basement next to a door that leaks in cold air like a zip-loc bag leaks water. (You know…because zip-loc bags aren’t very good at holding liquids).
For a while in my house, we were trying to save money by not turning on the heat.
Well, Dad, we’re saving oodles now.
Fortunately, the repairman should be coming soon, and I’ll be able to wear my traditional household garb of boxers and socks without being able to use my nipples to slice up the tomatoes.