As I write this, I’m huddled over the space heater at work. The very marrow of my bones feels like it’s frozen solid. Will I ever be warm again?
At home I keep the thermostat in most of the house at 55 degrees, the bedroom at 60. Otherwise the electric bill would give me chilblains. I get into sweat pants and a thick hoodie, huddle under a sleeping bag, and practically hug the stuffing out of my dogs in order to leach a little body heat from them.
I feel like I’m at war with the Snow Miser. Actually, it rarely snows here, but it’s a raw, wet cold, which makes it seem even colder. It will be a long, slow, teeth-gritting slog until May. How the homeless survive in this city is beyond me.
And yet in Florida I was miserable from the heat most of the year. The humidity was such that stepping outside always felt as though I were entering an unpleasantly hot bath against my will. The only respite there was January. It was the one month that didn’t suck the life out of me.
All this makes me realize what a narrow realm of temperature we humans can comfortably inhabit. How is it possible that some people refuse to take global warming seriously? It’s a really bad idea to mess with Mother Nature.