frozen toes

When people ask me what climate I prefer, I say "something with all four seasons." I tell them that I like the snow. Lately, however, I have been constantly complaining about the cold. Sure, it could be because my house's heat is set at 55 degrees and I only wear a fleece when I go outside in the 17 degree weather, but that is immaterial. I am being a whiner about a temperature which is historically warm for this time of year.

When I was a child, winter started in October and ended in April. Snow storms and ice storms canceled school not infrequently. Hats, mittens, scarves, snow pants and boots were the regular attire. I remember getting enough snow to build igloos and enough ice to pull out my mom's old ice skates and skate my way around the neighborhood. Despite the average temperature being in the single digits, I never remember being really and truly cold, or at least not cold enough that a hot chocolate couldn't warm me up.

These days, I would rather stay inside wrapped in three blankets, taking burning hot showers and drinking hot tea rather than brave the 42 degree weather outside. I don't know if it's that the invincibility of childhood has worn off or the years of comfort have added up, but I find myself crossing off places like Minnesota and Montana as possible future places of residence.