Hypothermia: Subnormal Temperature

"One of these days you're going to catch on fire, you know."

I nod, absently.  My husband says this to me routinely, as if it's some kind of word-of-mouth insurance (you know, the kind that eventually leads to comments of the "told you so" variety, although it's unlikely he'd use this approach if I actually did catch on fire).

I think he just loves me, is all.  He'd hate for me to have to put my "stop, drop, and roll" knowledge to good use (that's the extent of it, actually.  Stop, drop, and roll, nevermind the hardwood bamboo floors.  And something involving a woolly blanket, flour, and the fire extinguisher.  Where is that thing?) 

But I can't help myself.  I come from a long line of women who belong in Florida.  Granted, Northeast Georgia winters aren't nearly as cold as those in Oregon, and I've lived through both.  That being said, there is something about a Georgia winter that is just depressing.  The sky gets white, the ground freezes up, and a nice heavy rainfall produces nothing but ice (if you're lucky you'll get a one-inch White Christmas that will probably melt and turn into mud by midnight).  Then comes January, a month-long Monday with a head cold.  Which is why, every winter without fail, my mother turns to my dad and says, "Glenn, we need to move to the beach."  And dad agrees, and then they turn up the central heating and grab a blanket.

That would be the safe thing to do.  But I like living on the edge, see, so I just inch my way closer to the Vanguard gas heater and slowly turn up the knob.  I can feel the back of my legs start to burn, but I can't walk away (thus the possibility of catching myself on fire).  It reminds me of laying out on the beach.  This is also why I like to fall asleep with a bright light shining on my face.  I can fool myself into warmth and happiness.  Briefly.

The downside of these Miami-birthed tendencies is that they're prone to stifle my roomies.  There's nothing like a cold winter to bring out our differences.  Tim would like a snowfall reminiscent of the blizzard of '93; I'd like a permanent summer, thank you.  On the weekends when he's here at the cabin he'd like to keep the heat on low and the windows cracked; I'd like to climb inside the heater and hibernate.  He wears thermal shirts and wool socks; I collect summer dresses and tank tops.  He's good to go without a single blanket; I've got cold feet that are a lovely shade of frozen blueberry.

Unfortunately, I'm also one of those moms who just assumes her child feels exactly the same way she feels.  I'm cold?  Why, naturally, he's cold!  I need five blankets?  Why, so does he!  And then, two minutes later: I'm burning up under here!  The kiddo must be suffocating.  What?  Cold again?  Poor baby, you're fit to freeze. 

It's like a madman's juggling act with blankets, socks, and heaters (and it's not even winter yet).  You should come see it sometime.  Cost of admission: plane ticket to 95 + degrees.  Save a life, would you?

If nothing else, check out what I found in my online dictionary (I swear Merriam Webster used me in this example):

Examples of hypothermia: 

She fell into the cold [winter] and nearly died.