Winter 2014

A threshold I'm not so keen to cross. An article in the Tribune this morning said we adapt to the cold after constant exposure so that 30 degrees in November feels much worse than 30 degrees in February. Hmmph.
I'm trying to make the best of it by focusing on the good parts of a cold, snowy winter: hot chocolate, burrowing under thick blankets, escaping into a novel set in Jamaica or India, relishing comfort foods like mac and cheese, split pea soup, cassoulet. Given that 50% of that list involves high-calorie food, and that the weather is not conducive to exercise, it's no wonder the old jeans are a bit snug.
Nevertheless, there are a couple of things useful to the writer in these arctic days. I've been keeping a weather log because come July, I will have (blissfully) forgotten the details of things like ice around the inside of the front door, the shredded wheat dryness of my skin, and static electricity that jolts me every time I walk across the carpet in wool socks to touch a light switch.
There's also that intriguing theory of adaptability. In addition to frigid temperatures, what else do we become so inured to that it ceases to be something we view as problematic? We might have to shrug off the winter weather, but too much of the time it seems we just accept corrupt politicians, greedy corporate entities, a broken health care system, the disenfranchisement of large portions of our society . . . the list is endless, and the stories are limitless.