I’m writing this cold and while you’re reading this I am cold. The night before last I went to bed wearing a hat. The thermostat was set to 60 degrees. Unless it’s July or the two seconds preceding vomiting, I’ve never not been cold. Tests for anemia or hypothyroidism or any of the other diseases you blame for being lame to be around consistently come back negative. The doctor scratches her head while I wonder aloud if maybe a skin graft from a polar bear would work? She suggests hot tea.
I grew up with a milkman. Every Monday morning, we’d wake up for school and have to unload all these milks. It’d be 6:30 AM in February, and my siblings and I would form an assembly line from the back porch into the kitchen. The glass bottles were freezing and would numb our fingers and bang against my sisters and I’s bare knees under our uniform skirts. WBBM radio blared reports of sleet and stabbings while the wind howled. We’d better hurry as our carpool’s conversion van was moping into our driveway, yawning out exhaust onto a brown pile of snow. My parents ordered 12 half gallons of milk a week, so we were out there long enough to have earned a wage. Milk defines my childhood; I didn’t have a glass of water until I went to college.
Growing up in the 1930s was hard, especially in an old, cold-prone house. Its wooden floors and dining room where a previous owner died were whimsical, sure, but the poor insulation and the fact that my bedroom was in the attic induced me to frightful bouts of poetry, that is, when my blue fingers could grip a pen.
My hands would get so cold and chapped that they’d bleed, so my Mom would lather them in Eucerin cream before I went to bed. I’d have to wear these little white gloves so that I wouldn’t get greasy paw prints all over the sheets. I’d lie there in the dark and hold a gloved hand in front of my face, scaring myself and feeling the thrill of being alive.
By high school I had a space heater in my room that I switched on every day at 4 o’clock. As the fluids warmed and crackled, I’d take my hormonal nap and dream that my perfectly good life was better. One evening, I woke to my Dad opening the door to say hi after work only for him to exclaim how hot it was. “Oh my GOD, Molly!! It is WAY too hot in here! WAY TOO HOT!!!” To be fair, it was probably over 80 degrees, but he had no idea what it was like to be an icicle-boned sophomore meant to live in a surfer’s body and lifestyle. He certainly didn’t need to get upset or call me “sick.” What’s sick was limiting our shower times so as not to waste hot water. Especially when I only feel clean after 40 minutes under boiling water.
We had two options of uniform sweaters in high school - a pullover and a cardigan. I wore them both at the same time, and on especially cold days, which were frequent as my school was built as an orphanage for Czech children in 1899, I wore gloves. I cut the fingers off so that I could comfortably take notes even as my palms sweat. When my art teacher, normally obsessed with me for my pale, Pre-Raphaelite vibe, ignored my raised hand in class, I knew I’d crossed the line from cute cold girl into sick freak. Years later I went to lunch with this teacher and she ordered a white zinfandel and a grilled cheese. Future me I hope.
One of my talents is that I can hover my cold hands above my husband’s body and he can feel their chill. Am I a ghost? He’s not telling me if I am, so please someone tell me if I am a ghost.
Since the beginning of our relationship, the ease with which I can communicate my feelings to him has been so amazing.
Hall has been my warm rock over the years and for that I feel very grateful. He even bought me a portable hand warmer a couple months ago. Unfortunately it was from the same company that makes lighters so my hands ended up smelling like gasoline and I got a headache when I tried to nap. But it’s the thought that counts and the fact that as a replacement, he bought me an electric blanket. *Pinching myself!*
A cold body is even colder in two common places: office buildings and planes. During my consulting days (I’m 60 now, happily enjoying retirement with my grandkids), these two places were sadly where I spent most of my time. I worked in a violently air conditioned office in Atlanta one summer and on my lunch breaks would walk to a grassy patch outside of the Coca-Cola museum, where I’d grease myself up in SPF 30 and lie on a beach towel to thaw. After sweating my business grays, I’d return to the office and throw a fleece on, hoping to capture the heat like foil to a panini.
In another office in Chicago, my coworker and I would go to the kitchen for “cups of warm,” which were just cups of hot water we’d place our hands around.
I don’t know how this is possible but I’ve been the coldest I’ve ever been in my life multiple times. Most of these times have been on airplanes. I’d sit there, hood up, and look around at all the fools being gaslit that it was actually temperate in there. The fact that they mindlessly went about ordering drinks with ice…sheeple! After sampling the different airlines, I determined via a Goldilocks method that United was too cold, Southwest was too hot, and Delta was just right– if you’re normal. For me Southwest could still be hotter and United should be illegal. I wish I’d considered working as a mascot instead. Must be nice and warm.
This is where the happy ending comes. Sadly I cannot offer that today nor ever. What I can do is take comfort in my electric blanket, relish in the company of my best friend and space heater, and hope that one day, when our planet is a billion degrees, I’ll spot a fellow cold soul, who like me is hustling about, wrapped in a scarf.
***DO YOU SUFFER FROM BEING COLD? KNOW SOMEONE WHO DOES? THEN PLEASE: