Common wisdom holds that the average normal human body temperature is 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit (37 degrees Celsius). I tend to fall one degree below normal. Whether or not this officially makes me coldblooded, the effect is the same.

When it is the slightest bit cold – be it in winter when the air itself is frigid or in summer when the air conditioning is blasting and as Murphy’s law would have it, I am seated directly under the vent – I am freezing. In winter, I survive with layers. If it is below 40 degrees, I generally have on a long sleeve shirt and a wool sweater, plus tights, socks, and jeans with knee-height boots (protects my lower legs from the wind). Since many buildings in New York City blast the heat, it is not uncommon to be in a room in which the air conditioning is also cranked up to counter the hot air. Thus I wear gloves both inside and outside to keep my fingers from turning into icicles. I don’t give a shit if I look like a crazed Eskimo. For the life of me I cannot understand how women wear slinky little outfits with no sleeves, tiny skirts with no tights, and open-toed shoes in winter.

Being cold, though, is preferable to being sweaty. When it is slightly hot, I am sweltering. My reptilian blood adapts to the surroundings and I get overheated. Unlike in the winter, there’s not too much I can do clothing wise to adjust. My personal limits too how little I will wear out in public far exceed the absolute minimum one must cover herself so as to avoid arrest. Plus, since the air condition is likely on high wherever I am, I need to bring a sweater so that I don’t go too far in the opposite direction. It’s ridiculous.

Usually I tend toward being cold. However, night time is the exception. I sleep like a furnace. It cannot be cold enough in a room (and if it is, I’ll just add clothes until I adjust then when I wake up sweaty, I take various layers off and go back to sleep). I have a hard time sleeping without a cover, so if the room is slightly warm, I am miserable. I can’t sleep.

Last night was one of those nights that punished my coldblooded essence. Our bedroom was approximately 900 degrees and the living room was around 35 degrees, so I decided to sleep on the couch. I was so hot from the damn room, though, that the freezing living room did not make a difference, even though I was barefoot. Barefoot! I decided that I must have a slight fever since I was so warm,* and when I took my temperature, it was 98.4, so not too high. Very strange.

And that is it for today’s pointless post.

*One of the interesting things about fevers is that the higher your temperature, the colder you are likely to feel. This is because your body itself is burning up, so the air temperatures feel extra cold in comparison. I learned this when I came down with Hep A in November 2005. I was at a conference for leaders in early childhood education policy at this horrible facility in Virginia near Dulles Airport. (It looked like a prison. I have no idea who would design such a oppressive conference center.) On the first night of the powwow, I was in my cell – er, I mean room – and I have never been colder in my life. I turned the wimpy heater up as high as it would go, and wore a pair of jeans and a wool sweater over my flannel pajamas, two pairs of socks, my coat, gloves, and hat in bed, under the covers. I could not stop shivering. Alternatively, I broke out in sweats and had to strip everything off and dry heave over the toilet. It was awful. When I later told my friend Dr. P what happened, she said I must have been running a very high fever.