Every winter I hit a point where I stop being a person and start being something closer to a winter creature — highly functional indoors, deeply skeptical of the outdoors, and entirely uninterested in pretending otherwise.
Around mid-month, it happens.My will to leave the house? Gone. My tolerance for wind? Negative. My desire to participate in society? Currently on leave and not responding to emails.
I have fully transformed into a cold-weather being whose natural habitat is “indoors, wrapped in something soft.” And frankly, I’m thriving.
It always starts subtly.One day you choose slippers instead of shoes. The next day you grab a blanket just for a minute. And by Day 14 you’re working, reading, and contemplating the meaning of life under the same fleece cocoon like a medieval peasant with Wi-Fi access.
Leaving the house becomes a full expedition. Check the temperature.
Check the wind. Check whether this particular errand is truly essential or if it can be accomplished later… or by someone else… or never.
If the temperature is lower than my age, I’m not going. It’s a simple, sensible policy.
Meanwhile, people keep inviting me to go places — lunches, coffees, gatherings — and I respond the same way every time: as if they’ve politely asked me to join an Arctic expedition.
“Out? As in… outside? In January? Absolutely not.”
My wardrobe has also adapted to the season. At this point everything I wear is either stretchy, fuzzy, or something I’ve owned long enough to have developed a deep emotional attachment to. Functional, practical, cozy — not a fashion emergency, just seasonal survival.
The cold does strange things to a person. It shrinks your world down to warm corners of the house and makes the outdoors feel less like fresh air and more like a rude personal attack. Even the walk to the mailbox feels dramatic. I brace myself like I’m stepping onto the set of a nature documentary: “The suburban woman ventures briefly into the wild, battling harsh winds and mild irritation.”
Eventually, spring will appear. I’ll emerge blinking, cautious, and unsure of the current trends in pants. I’ll rejoin society, maybe. We’ll see.
Until then, if you need me, you know exactly where I’ll be:
Under a blanket. With snacks. Ignoring anything that requires shoes.