Cold

I am frequently physically cold. I have self-diagnosed with poor circulation, as my toes and my fingers are generally much more frigid than my core. In fact, when I was driving the other day, my index finger fell asleep. Yes, my index finger. The same phenomenon has occured with my toes, but I must say the finger was a first. I don’t know if it is common for extremities to fall asleep when cold, but that is what happens to me. I would deem myself “cold intolerant”, but I don’t exactly adore extreme heat either. I prefer a lovely middle temperature, just warm enough to keep me comfortable but not so stifling that I could chew the air. Now, my extreme temperature impairment is inconveiniant given my place of birth and residence, Canada. There are many things I adore about my home and native land, but the weather is certainly not one of them. Cold hands abound come winter time, proving wrong the adage “cold hands, cold heart”. Or so I like to think.

It is true, however, that when I am cold I am far more liable to fly off the handle. I associate extreme temperatures with extreme emotions. Oftentimes, feeling so uncomfortable in my own skin thanks to an absurd discrepancy between internal and external temperatures will provoke a panic attack or a crying spell. Maybe subconciously this is because sometimes outbursts make me warmer. The subterfuge of a well-timed warming panic attack is misguided, however, since the outburst tends to backfire. In such a case I’m liable to end up cheeks-a-blazing while my toes remain numb. Body temperature regualtion goes awry too often in this haywire system.

My sanity is debateable, given this tendancy to fail miserably at temperature tolerance and regulation, since I continue to live in a climate prone to weather swings. I guess I keep hoping that one day my body will figure out that the weather is crazy, and adapt accordingly. Fat chance, but here’s hoping.

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