November 24, 2005
Long Dark Frost-Bite of the Soul
My norse ancestors are rolling in their graves. As a descendant of a clan that is buried in Sandefjord, Norway, I shame them with my shivering and pants-wetting whining at the blistering winds that scrape the moisture from my skin. Even more shaming is that the hot blood of the norsemen is not just in my veins- I was born in the sawtooth mountains of Idaho and survived the first few winters of life living in a trailer that sometimes was buried under snow-drifts. My mother tells tales of digging snow tunnels to her neighbors’ trailers. I learned to ice-skate almost immediately after walking. As a teen-ager I went to high school in Massachusetts and and mocked the cold by wearing a mere flannel or t-shirt to class.
How then can I have become so soft? Did California ruin me with its sunny skies? I thought not- because San Francisco always seemed annoyingly chilly to me, despite living in the warmest neighborhood in the area. I think now it is because the buildings were not properly heated. Chicago knows about multiple steam radiators, double-paned windows, foyers, revolving doors… that sort of thing.
The YMCA was closed today, but I needed exercise. The sun was out, so I decided that a bike-ride would be OK. I bundled up with two layers of pants, long socks, three layers on top, a hat, gloves, glasses and headphones. As I rolled out, I felt the first gust of wind and wondered if I’d be warm enough but figured that once I got my blood flowing I’d be OK. Also, don’t estimate the power of a good rock song.
Fade in “Eye of the Tiger.” Shot of cyclist racing through the streets, legs pumping, blowing fog into the air.
I think I was OK for the first 30 minutes of the ride. Then I had to wait for the light at Cermack. This is an annoyingly long light. I shifted back and forth and spat in the street as I waited impatiently for the light to turn. An unmarked cop car sat next to me with a prisoner in the back seat. His day was probably a lot worse than mine, but mine was about to take a dive.
As the light turned, I became acutely aware of pain in my toes. I suppose it’s good that I could actually feel them, but the pain increased in intensity as I raced home, wiggling my toes as I pumped, trying to keep them warm. I don’t know how I didn’t immediately fall to the ground as I got off my bike, because my toes were positively non-functional. I duck-walked to the basement to park my bike and then hobbled up the stairs.
I remembered what my friend Wexie told me, that women have a higher core temperature (presumably for protecting potential offspring) and that in extreme temperatures, women will get frostbite before men, but a man will die before a woman. I suppose that explains why the mean temperature of my bed always increases by about 600% whenever there is also a man in it.
The first order of business was to strip off my gloves so that I could turn on water for a bath. Then I numbly stripped off the many layers of clothes. I made sure the water was not scalding hot so as not to potentially crack the frozen porcelain of my feet. The first few seconds of the bath was OK, but I soon became aware of a burning pain as I sat down. That fire was apparent on the red skin of my shins where only one layer of sock had defended me, but soon I could feel the minions of satan raping and pillaging the insides of my outermost extremities. A moment later I became aware of a burning itch on those parts of my legs and ass that are… how shall we say… the curviest. I suppose the lack of blood supply in my fatty tissue had also caused that area, despite being clad in several layers to become excessively cold. The hot water produced a burning itchy effect. I was afraid that I would scratch my skin open trying to relieve the itchiness, so I donned my exfoliating scrubby gloves and gently massaged my burning hot/cold skin back to life as I wailed and was reminded of one of my earliest memories.
fade to black, fade in to a black and white antique scene in the woods, augmented by the sound of strings playing a sad classical movie-soundtrack style movement. A young girl makes figures on ice with her skates.
My mom, her boyfriend and I went skating on a lake somewhere in mid-Idaho. I imagine it wasn’t far from Sun Valley, somewhere in the Sawtooth mountain range. I remember skating for a while, which I did often then. At some point I was moved to the car where I was bundled with layers and layers of coats. Watching my breath blow fog on the window, I watched my mother skate and wondered if I would ever feel warm again.
fade to color shot of legs in a bathtub, splashing and wriggling… skin red, steam rising up from the water.
Though I consider myself adventurous, I think I am not hardy enough to be an ice-climber. Ever.
Though I have recently been described kindly as having “pluck” and “gumption.” I’m sure that the person that said that meant, “stupid” and “crazy.” Thank you for your kindness.