But I'd rather be with my heater in Packrat

When I was a little girl my grandmother used to turn up her floor furnace full blast and stand over it. I never really understood why; the house was warm enough for the rest of us. Now as I have a room heater going full blast as close to me as I can get it, I understand why. I also see how keeping warm being my top priority affects my quality of life.

…I want to make chicken and dumplings for dinner but need the fixin’s - which I won’t get because it means extra time out in the cold. I don’t leave work for lunch (because that would mean leaving the building and leaving my office where my heater is), so I can’t shop then; at the end of the day I hurry home so I can feed my dogs in the light. The temperature goes down as the sun sets, and I want them to have full stomachs (they don’t cooperate; they’d rather play, waste food, and I’ve noticed that they’re already showing signs of shedding!) by then. Going to the store after they’re fed means going when it’s getting dark and therefore colder. Not going to happen.

…I already mentioned in my last entry that I want to see Selma but don’t want to venture out in the cold to do it.

…At the end of this month I have a meeting to attend in the city and debated about asking Sista to meet me for dinner after it’s over. I want to visit with her; my only hesitation was that it means being out in the cold after dark. (Since that was the only hang up, I contacted her, and we’re going to have dinner that day.)

…Normally I love to travel for my job. Now I have an event coming up in Philadelphia in February, and my mind is closed against it. Oh, I’ll go, but like Scarlett O’Hara, “Ah’ll think about iyt tahmarrah.” (Probably not doing the movie justice here; I’ve never seen Gone with the Wind, but I often hear that quote associated with it.)

It’s not as if I’m out without layers of clothing or for hours at a time without shelter. I just get cold easily and take forever to get warm. When I have the house or my car warm enough to suit me, someone else with a red sweaty face complains about being smothered.

The most I’ll be out (except for all I do with the dogs) is a minute or two, running from my car to a building or vice versa. The cold is really no reason not to do something, and I’ve noticed that doing nothing to stay in my cocoon has affected my brain. When I write in my paper journal it’s all about my dogs, the status of their shelter, my worries, why I worry. (They’re not worried - they play and are interested in everything.) I’ve written pages on that - and then I come back on a new day and write more. I’m right to worry if I have cause - the weather is a cause, but the shelter is comfortable, even for me (yes, I said even for me - I frequently crawl in to check for air coming in somewhere).

The problem is, I’m a worrier. I used to have a cartoon on my wall that said, “I think - therefore I worry”.

And yet I’m the one who’s always telling someone, “Let go and let God!” (I could do that, too, but I’m always trying to figure it out in my head and save God the trouble!)

All that to say - my topics of thought are extremely limited by limiting my world. Since coming back to work my thoughts have expanded, and I don’t want to impede their growth just because I don’t want to get cold for a minute!

I also see that I’ll need to be active in my later years to keep my mind active. Yes, I need to be concerned about my babies, but they don’t need to be my only concern. The cold keeps me in, but it’s not enough reason to prevent me from going out.

And I should clarify - it’s never zero or in the single digits here, and most days are rather mild. I haven’t had frost on my windshield in weeks. I haven’t even pulled out my winter coat yet; I’ve been wearing a heavily lined fleece jacket. Sometimes, when I take trash outside or feed the feral cats, I don’t have on a jacket - or even shoes. (I’m whining about being cold but I’m always barefoot.) Not wanting to go out in sub-zero temps would be understandable, but I’m just a pansy.

Well, I come by it naturally. One elderly lady called my mom and my aunts “hothouse flowers” because they never wanted to venture out; I’m the next generation. (And a hothouse sounds lovely right now!)