My Cold War

One unanticipated joy about moving back to the northeast after our southern sojourn is the ready-made excuse that I cannot possibly leave the house today because, my goodness, it’s simply too cold outside. I do love any and all excuses to remain indoors. Hard to say how long this particular outdoor-avoidance excuse will last because I already find myself growing re-acclimated to the frigid temps. Soon, perhaps, I will once again hike with the dogs through a snowy meadow. A lovely thought on paper. But then you go out and do it and think to yourself, I’m cold.

Would I rather be a little too hot or a little cold? In theory, I think a little too cold sounds better. In practice, though, I’ll take the heat. In fact, I ran an experiment to prove this point to myself.

Last week I took my son to a place in New York called “Bathhouse” which is, as the name suggests, a bathhouse. I’ve always wanted to go to New York’s famous Russian baths, but I’ve never been. Mostly because I didn’t like the idea of sharing a cramped sweat lodge with hairy old men, which is how I imagine the Russian baths clientele. Bathhouse, on the other hand, is sleek and modern and filled with attractive young people who no doubt looked at me and thought, Where does this old guy think he is, the Russian baths?

“Come, schvitz.” Photo by Brian Zak/NY Post

Bathhouse has several saunas, warm pools, a steam room, and two cold plunges. Yes, I tried them. Yes, I hated them. Why the “cold plunge” is considered a trend rather than a torment, I do not know. I’m glad to have sampled it, however, because I have now definitively answered the question of whether I prefer hot or cold. Give me all the heat, daddy.

A couple years ago, I went through a fairly significant depressive episode which resulted in me losing around twenty-five pounds, weight I have not yet regained. The result of the weight loss, in addition to, again, aggravating my low-current eating disorder, is that I’m always cold. As I write these words from an airplane seat (DC to Hartford), I’m wearing a silk t-shirt, hoodie, winter jacket, and scarf. Nobody else is wearing their coat that I can see. Probably because the plane is perfectly warm. But I am cold. Which is why, once I am back on the tundra, I cannot possibly go out of doors until May of next year at the earliest.

Speaking of which, don’t go to France if you hate being cold. We spent a month there last January and when I tell you I was cold the entire time – I was cold the entire time. I guess they just don’t believe in HVAC systems in Europe. Because the heat is always set too low, the air-conditioning non-existent, and if you wash your clothes, expect them to remain damp for the rest of the time you own them. They will never dry. The French don’t believe in dryers unless it’s a combo washer/dryer. They should just call it a washer/dampener. Not because it dampens your clothes, but your mood.

It was a terrible trip.

The upside is that we decided not to move to France, preferring to remain in the land of deep domestic rot, but competent home appliances. A decision which, not even a year later, landed us back in the wintry wilds of Connecticut. It’s cold here!

Even so, I cannot heat our midcentury masterpiece as warm as I would like because Martha runs hot. So now we’re engaged in an ongoing Cold War that involves long johns, duvets, and thermostatic subterfuge. A common household outfit for me these days is the aforementioned airplane attire, plus an additional hoodie on top of my hoodie. Yes, I sometimes double-hoodie the way Steve Bannon double pops his shirt collars. They’re both bad looks, but I take comfort in the fact that, no matter how poorly I attire myself, I will never look as awful as Steve Bannon. Even if I die tomorrow, my corpse will remain better-looking in decay than a fully alive Steve Bannon.

(These sorts of ad hominem attacks are precisely what happens when one’s mood is befouled by polar gales. I mean, what did Steve Bannon ever do to me? Nothing, that’s what! If such American luminaries as Woody Allen and Jeffrey Epstein like the guy, who am I to say otherwise?)

***

A few hours have now passed. I am off the plane and safely ensconced back in the woodsy wilds. And I am cold. The airplane seat has been replaced with my couch, the jacket with a wool blanket. The hoodie and silk undershirt remain. Outside, snow is falling in gentle swirls. Even the dogs made short work of their nightly, pre-bed constitutional. The cat looked inquiringly at the snow, sniffed the air, and decided indoors would be best for the evening. On that point, we are in agreement.

Some potential good news, however, on the Cold War front. As she recounted her day, Martha mentioned that, at some point, she’d like to replace the bedroom windows because they are – and she could not have picked a happier phrase for mine ears – “too cold.”

You hear that? Even my sturdy Minnesotan wife is now OFFICIALLY of the opinion that the house could use a little warming. Might this qualify as détente? Too early to say, but this happy moment might be short-lived because, while I agree that the windows are too cold (70’s construction, we think), I am also way too penurious to replace them. And here my hatred of the cold ruins smack dab into my fear of going broke. Coupled with my depression and eating disorder, you can see why everybody agrees she married a real peach. Also, I think I’m about to lose a tooth. But for the moment at least, I’m under a blanket, cozy, and filled with the warmth of home. See you sometime in May.