Cold weather wimp

Being from South Texas, I have an aversion to cold weather. I groan and pout and glare from under my leaning tower of blankets.

Give me 110 degrees with 90 percent humidity and I am perfectly content, as others drop from heatstroke.

However, if the thermostat goes below 75, my extremities quit producing heat, my hands and feet turn to ice. Tempt fate by going below 50 and I am rocking myself in a ball trying to fight off hypothermia.

(Matt is convinced I am actually a reptile.)

Cold hands and feet are not a human only problem. ©Teresa Shumaker.

When I moved to the Mendocino Coast I had quite a climate shock.  The temperature rarely moves more that 20 degrees between night and day, and between seasons. Most days it hovers around 55 degrees, even in the dog days of summer.

What does change is the temp in my apartment. During the summer, the sun will bake my apartment to a nice, toasty 75 to 85 degrees. In the winter, it can drop to 45 degrees, and my cat, Sylvia, will collect frost on her coat. (Ok, maybe not the frost part. But, she does fluff up and hug the heater, showing she too has the thin blood of a South Texan in her veins.)

When I woke up this morning, I began my fall ritual of fighting the severe dislike of being blasted with cold air once the warm blankets are removed. Sylvia leaned her fluff-ball figure into my throat for warmth. Everything about the cold, crisp air is evil early in the morning.

After piling on a ton of warm clothes and shuffling around my apartment looking like an Eskimo, I finally gave in and turned on the heater for the first time this season.

When it came to life, it kindly told me it was only 56 degrees in the house. Well, I felt pretty dumb for my self-proclaimed martyrdom in my Artic apartment. I was sure it was 36, nearing freezing.

Being half numb from the cooler temps, it all feels the same to me.
What can I say? I'm a cold weather wimp.

How Sylvia weathers the winter here on the coast. ©Teresa Shumaker.