Chilled Into Unconsciousness

I’m a die-hard walker, walking most days approximately two miles in thirty minutes. I love to walk.

Previous winters I have had a faithful walking partner, a woman who is as nuts as I am, walking out in the wind and the snow, yaktrax on our boots, our faces slathered with Vaseline, our bodies bundled beyond recognition. We’d pick our way through icy patches, figuring if one of us went down the other could get her upright or at least call for help.

Two bad things have happened this winter: My walking companion moved to Maine and the Arctic Vortex has driven southward and gathered the north east—and much of the rest of the country--into its costly, icy grip. I’m not at all sure what the Arctic Vortex is, having never heard of it until this year, but it is seriously nasty.

 I can manage to walk without my friend; it’s not as much fun, not by a long shot, but I can manage.

But the Arctic Vortex? That’s another story. Below zero wind chills rip my face off and as a result, I am walking less. What’s worse, on the other side of the health equation, I am surprised to discover that I am eating more.

 I say “surprised” because it’s only recently that I have noticed foods appearing in my fridge and on my shelves that do not ordinarily inhabit my kitchen.

Where did that bag of Tate’s Double Chocolate Chip cookies come from? And the shining container of Quadratini, Dark Chocolate Bite Size Wafer Cookies?  I think the idea of “Bite Size” must have seemed safe to me when I snatched them up at Whole Foods, but bite size doesn’t help much if---as I did yesterday--you eat ten of them, one right after the other.

 And how did the rich and creamy Cold Fusion Cocoanut Gelato get into my freezer?

These are not good signs.

I’d like to think that, intuitively, like a bear, I am attempting to build a layer of fat against the relentless cold of this winter and that, of course, come spring, that layer will drop off, simply melt away, as I go frolicking along the sidewalks without having to guard against ice and without a choked-wrapped scarf around my face and nose.

 This is an illusion. The weight will not drop off. I know it won’t. Soon my jeans will fail to zip and I’ll have to join a gym—something I have never wanted to do.

It will all be the fault of the Arctic Vortex, a phenomenon, which, I feel strongly, should go back home where it belongs.