The 57 to which our headline refers is the current air temperature, in degrees Fahrenheit, in Los Angeles, according to the thermometer that was included for free when I acquired my trusty sidekick, Al.
Now, if I were in the City by the Lake - the town I called home for the better part of 13 years - and the temperature was 57 degrees, I would be wearing jeans and a t-shirt. I just might be sitting outside on my balcony, pondering the evils of global warming and, perhaps, deciding what kind of animal to barbecue for dinner.
But I’m not in Chicago, and the imperviousness to cold temperatures that I gained from a dozen-plus years there, preceded by four long winters in Rochester, New York - I was there for four full years; it’s just that it was winter the whole time - well, that imperviousness is all gone. I am now completely... um, maybe... pervious to cold temperatures. Cold, apparently, being anything less than 63 degrees.
So when it’s 57 in L.A., I am most certainly not wearing jeans and a t-shirt. Today, it’s chinos, a long-sleeve shirt, a sweater, and when I’m outdoors, a light jacket. And gloves. (Yes, seriously.) I am decidedly not sunning myself on a deck. And I’m sure as hell not pondering global warming; I’m pondering whether long-johns and wool socks might have been a good call for today.
I’m disappointed. I thought I’d be able to resist the annoying "thinner blood" thing. At least for more than two winters. No such luck.
Oh, and, considering my temperature wussiness, the heater in our apartment picked a really excellent week to give out.