I am so very proud of myself. For two mornings in a row, I have thrown myself out of my warm house to venture into below-freezing temperatures.
Sure, I can hear it now: “People do that all the time, that isn’t anything special.” Well, perhaps people do sally forth into such temperatures all the time, but “I” do NOT.
I am fortunate enough to have been born a Georgia peach, meaning I did not have to acclimate myself to such harsh weather conditions as a child. I am fortunate enough to have lived my life within six degrees of this latitude for my years as an adult, with only two exceptions. For two years I was in Panama, basking in warmth which never dropped to less than seventy percent of body temperature. Savannah is thirty-two degrees north of the equator; the Canal Zone (now an extinct area) in Panama is only nine degrees north of that imaginary line and has beach weather all year – ah, bliss!
I’ve had my chances to move farther north. Before my first marriage, the Navy was set to send me to Ireland and my soon-to-be husband to Panama. As my future duty station was designated a better selection (due to its location in Europe), there was no possibility of him being able to join me there. So, after informing the government of our impending wedding, I released my choice assignment and choose to accompany my spouse to Central America. Good decision!
This discussion of my first marriage brings me to the second exception to my living at thirty-two degrees north. He and I met during the brief span of time spent at school near Waukegan, Illinois, at forty-two degrees north. I had arrived there in mid-April from Orlando, Florida, and was shocked by the cold temperature. I had to forget about my halter tops and shorts and don my knee-length greatcoat and gloves again. By the time of my departure from that area in the first week of August, I was again clad in my greatcoat.
I found it difficult to believe that people would CHOOSE to live under such conditions, but then I married the man from Oregon, who had lived his life just a bit more north of that latitude. I should have known that he would want to eventually return to the upper west coast and its climate. Although his longing for home was not the reason for our divorce, I must state for the record that I am sure it was a contributing factor. We did travel there once and spent much of the month of another April in its rainy chill, perhaps made more daunting after the bliss of Panama life.
Oddly, my second marriage was also to a man from a latitude which is forty-plus degrees north. Fortunately, his time in the military had allowed him to discover the (almost) snow-free existence of life in Savannah and he was not interested in dragging me off to Michigan. He did try to encourage me to seek employment in northern states after I obtained my degree, but I resisted mightily. Honestly, I believed then – and even more so, now – that life spent in that harsh environment would be miserable and just might kill me.
Now that I have hypothyroidism, I am even more sensitive to the cold. Every year, as the arctic blasts wreak havoc, I seriously consider moving farther south. Maybe one day I will, but that day is not yet arrived.
For now, I am proud of myself for simply braving the below-freezing temperatures for two mornings in a row.
