cold toes

My extremities are always cold. My husband sits there on his couch at night under a blanket-- we do keep the heater set quite low, 71-- snug as a bug in a t-shirt and jeans. I put on a wool sweater and undershirt, sweatpants, socks, and wrap myself up in one of the beautiful and warm quilts my great-grandmother handmade years ago, and I'm still freezing. My toes are always like ice, my nose gets so cold it runs, my fingernails are slightly purple, and if you grabbed my hand you'd think I was a corpse. I don't know if this is something I should worry about or not.

I wore what my husband calls "real shoes" to work today, meaning they cover my whole foot and either lace or buckle up, thinking that on this bitterly cold day in my multi-window office they and my purple polka-dot socks would keep my toes toasty. But nonetheless, I'm sitting here with my feet underneath me, "Indian-style" in this leather office chair, trying to tuck my real-shoed feet into the crook of my knees to infuse some body heat back into my frozen toes, with my wool coat wrapped around my shoulders and my cashmere turtleneck pulled up high around my chin.

My husband thinks I'm crazy. But he thinks I'm crazy for a lot of things other than this. It's a good thing he loves crazy.

It's been a pretty boring day at work. The cat is away but the mice are not playing. I sat in on a software training this morning-- I may eventually become a trainer. But it wasn't very interesting and I'm not sure that's the direction I want to take. The good thing is that because this is an up and coming company I can decide my own role in it as we grow. The bad thing is that I'm not very good at making decisions. But I'm happy that they think me worthy to be a part of it as everyone else that works here is very smart and talented.

Too bad they aren't all cold-natured too, then I could turn up the heat past 73. I'm thinking 76 or so. Global warming be damned. I'm cold.

Cold toes mean a warm heart right? Sometimes.