Something that really stuck out at me while I was working on my mini-project on John Muir was repeated mentions of how cold weather didn't really bother him. He could be inadequately clothed in fierce winter weather, but he felt warm--sustained, perhaps, by his sheer love of being where he was.
It stuck out at me because I absolutely do not identify with it. If I shun a coat because I am just running out to the car, I am cold to my core, shivering and miserable, cursing the long Indiana winter. And while I don't get cold as easily as some people I know, I still like cranking my thermostat to 75 degrees--a practice I excuse by pointing to my tiny apartment and the heating assistance that drifts up from the elderly woman downstairs (I still use a quarter as much gas as my more thermally conservative friends who live in a house).
Didn't identify with Muir, that is, until today. I was contemplating which coat to put on when I thought, "Screw it. I refuse to submit to any more winter." So with a long-sleeve T-shirt, sleeves rolled up, I stepped out into the cold, sleety snow. I pretended the sun was shining, that it was in the upper eighties, and that the chilly wind was a welcomed summer breeze.
I wasn't cold. I could tell it was warmer inside than out, but I didn't feel cold. Not on the way to my car. Not in my car. Not on the hike from my car to the school. Not on a trip out to my car and back to grab something I'd forgotten. I checked twice, and the temperature is in the 30s. That's Fahrenheit.
I am not a person of extraordinary willpower--my classmates may confirm this by checking my posting habits in our online course--but apparently denial worked this time.
That, or the granola bar I had for breakfast was sheer magic.
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