Winter has come early to Indiana, and although years and years of frozen Midwestern winters should find me amply prepared, I find myself wrapped in my electric blanket, fingers white and numb, shaking my frozen fist at the sky and screaming, “NOOOO!”

We are all sick, most notably the J-Man, who sounds like a three-pack-a-day smoker or perhaps Selma from the Simpsons (who actually IS a three-pack-a-day smoker, I think). He thinks his voice is changing, but I think he’s on the road to laryngitis.

My mother is constantly shivering and putting on layer after layer of clothing, and she is even taking naps, and naps are rare for the pint-sized powerhouse.

I am merely shuffling around in fleece pants, plush socks, and my super-thick terrycloth bathrobe; looking much like the Michelin Man, but feeling slightly lukewarm. My face and nose are red and I’m coughing a lot.

To whom due we owe these maladies, we who rarely venture outside except to walk to the car/bus and back?

My stepdad. My stepdad is a Heat Miser. That son of a bitch refuses to turn the heat up past 68 even if cats frozen stiff like catsicles line the staircase. He simply will not budge.

“It’s not cold in here,” he says, pointing out his jeans and three-quarter-sleeved T-shirt. “You should go in my bedroom. Now THAT’S cold.”

He maintains a separate thermostat for his own room, and he keeps it at 54 degrees.

54 degrees. If that isn’t completely insane, than I don’t know what is.

To his credit, the man is almost never sick, so perhaps he fucking freezes the germs away, but I don’t plan to try it.

“You can sleep better in the cold,” he says. “You should give it a shot. It’s bracing.”

I’m sure it is. I’m sure being a member of the Polar Bear Club is quite bracing as well, but I still reserve the right to believe that those fuckers are insane.

Another reason I remain chilled is that I must smoke outside or in the garage. This is a Good Rule, a Healthy Rule, one that is beneficial to us all, particularly the J-Man, and mind you, I’m not complaining…

…but I’m just going to complain a little. Smoking outside or in the garage fucking SUCKS. It’s freezing. It’s freezing even with a winter coat on.

On a good note, I have cut down to less than a half a pack a day.

On a bad note, I swear a whole lot.

You’d think that having been a basement-dwelling troll for as long as I have, I’d be used to being colder than most. I am not. I still load up my bed with a down comforter, at least four other blankets, plus the aforementioned electric blanket, and surround myself with a down body pillow and about six other pillows for warmth. There are also usually at least three cats on the bed. I am still cold.

I didn’t use to be this way. In my tough-skinned youth, I used to forego wearing a coat. I used to sneer at wimpy tourists who would visit Chicago and complain about the harsh winters. I used to laugh at ice storms. If you can’t take the snow, I thought, then move somewhere wussy like California. Fucking babies.

I shoveled snow in a t-shirt and mittens, and I thought I was Bad Ass.

I am no longer Bad Ass. I am Weak Ass. I am old and frail and without robust blood. I buckle under the strong wind. I cringe at the thought of the impending snow. I think about chipping ice off of the driveway in January (the job will be mine, as the stepdad’s shoulders are shot to shit) and a shiver runs up my spine.

Wussy California is looking miiiighty good right about now.

I used to relentlessly make fun of my ex-fiancee for watching the Weather Channel. I thought, come on. It was like watching paint dry.

Now I get it completely.

I want to be ready. I want to be informed. I want to know what the hell is coming next. I watch that shit almost every day.

God help me. I have become one of Those People.

It’s the cold, you see. It’s gotten to my brain.

Happy Thursday.

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