Brian’s fitness journal after a brain stroke
Apparently, all that bragging I did about “adjusting to changing weather” has come back to haunt me. Once upon a time, 65°F was “pleasant sweater weather.” Now? Now 65°F has me wrapped in a robe like a retired emperor awaiting tea service. The price of confidence is humiliation—and apparently goosebumps.
The weather lately has been on a mood swing tour. One day we’re almost freezing, the next day it’s pushing 70°F, and my body is standing there like, “Ma’am, please pick one season. I cannot compute.” Just when I recalibrate to “crisp autumn person,” we get warm, humid rain and my internal thermostat quits its job entirely.
When the temperature is above 65°F, I usually run in shorts. Once I get moving, I warm up pretty fast—if I wear too much clothing, I basically steam myself like a dumpling. So when we suddenly got 70°F… then nearly 80°F… we didn’t even bother turning on the air conditioner. We don’t touch that button unless the temperature is genuinely trying to cook us. Also, I cannot handle the blast of cold air followed by stepping into the fiery outdoors. My body prefers consistent suffering.
The warm spell brought humidity too—just in time for our epic battle against cat fleas. Humidity is basically their vacation resort. Not ideal. But on the bright side, I got used to 80°F again. A small victory… with scratching.
Then—bam—temperature drops 15 degrees like it’s throwing a surprise plot twist. My wife commented casually while heading out for her morning exercise, like the cold was merely a decorative background feature. She says as long as the wind hits her face hard enough to make her nose hurt, she’s fine. Canada built her differently.
Meanwhile, I was digging out my long-sleeve running shirts like a squirrel retrieving winter nuts. Once layered properly, the cold run was actually not too bad. I may never be Canadian-level tough like my wife, but hey, I survive.
But here is the true reward of cold weather: our kitten has decided to become a nighttime bed-heater. She now burrows under the blanket like a tiny furry furnace. My wife says the cat radiates enough heat to roast a marshmallow, and by morning her legs have escaped the blanket entirely. Then again, my wife moves around at night like she’s running a marathon in her dreams, so the cat usually ends up attached to me. My wife occasionally makes comments about this, but that is a different discussion. (I maintain: cat chooses the warmest soul. Science.)
So yes—the weather is baffling, but sleeping with a purring space heater under the covers? That makes the chill worth it.