Bejeebers, I Hate Being Cold

…That’s putting it kindly just in case someone underage is reading this. I don’t appreciate shivering under my ten layers of clothes whose main job this time of year is keeping me warm. I’m not plagued with an internal flu bug ravaging my innards (that I’m aware of), nor do I have ice cubes hanging in dark, intimate places. Granted, at my age, there’s a few less insulating layers of squamous cells occupying my outer crust, but still …. I have a warm heart at my core – that should count for SOMETHING, right?

Western Pa winters aren’t what they used to be, I guess, but neither am I. My intolerance kicks on just about the time I hear the furnace doing the same thing. The basement monster klinks and clatters as my bones and blows hot air similar to what my friends claim I do in the midst of bloviating ad nauseam. My words don’t seem to take the chill off their opposition to my wit and the supposed snuggly indoor puffs of ventilated air churning about inside my home aren’t much better. Intolerance, indeed. Blankets, coverlets, afghans, quilts, duvets, a crash rhinos, a waddle of penguins, … cover me with anything this time of year. It doesn’t matter. I won’t warm up.

The energy I produce by shivering – in watts, amperes, or volts (however it’s calculated) – has to be enough to fund the light bill for a day’s use in a small city somewhere warm. The only problem I see with that plan is hooking up the electrodes through my multiple layers of glad rags. The only exposed skin available is my cherry-red nose sticking out through a tattered knit green ski-mask making me look like an ugly, oversized Christmas ornament. This plan, however ingenious as it may appear, may not be worth pursuing if, in the process, there would be a schnoozle-short and my conk gets compromised.

I have hoodies, sweaters, overshirts, long-sleeved shirts, and heavy socks, Oh, not in drawers and closets … all on at once.. layered quite nicely on my 6-foot frame. Long underwear, khaki slacks doubled in a manner so tightly compact I must find ways of walking unnaturally, yet appear normal in public. Normal in public is a problem for me anyway, so in my comfort zone I may appear to many. One of the benefits of being slightly irregular.

Any hot, sweet liquid dripped first down the gullet only works the first second or two provided I don’t burn the mucosa off my tongue. If that happens, all bets are off because I’m concentrating on stringing together useful, colorful language – hoping most small animals can hear me three blocks away. Maybe my tongue is in good order, tea or coffee settled comfortably in the stomach, then there is no warmth forthcoming anyway …. because …. steam from said beverage has caused mucous to run from my electrode free snoot making me take off my ski-mask thus releasing head-heat causing me to shiver.

I can’t seem to get help from anti-cold pack wanna-be thingamabobs either. Plug in heating pads do ok, but they’re kinda needy. They have limited range and mobility (like my left knee) which leaves me no option but to feel sorry for them. Bendability isn’t one of the finer traits they possess. Now, I’m not looking for an Olympic gymnast pad here, but something a bit more flexible than a 2×4 board wouldn’t be out of the picture. Hot water bottles last 2.6 seconds and then turn to polar ice cap status. I do have access to a newer re-heat snappy gizmo gel paddy thingy that is sorta cool. Bendy and warm … Just like a fresh hotdog. Of all the options, probably the best.

I, simply, don’t like being cold. Period. This year is the worst. I don’t see it getting any better as the years go on. Whatever global warming is going to do, I kinda wish it’d get on with it. Of course, that is meant in jest. I want my own personal sun following me around for warmth, happiness, and cost savings. I seriously have to spend less on penguins. The import fees on those buggers are expensive, they aren’t very good snugglers, and the rhinos are a bit too heavy.

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