Until now. This fall, I was talking with a couple of colleagues about the sense of impending doom I was feeling as the days shortened and the temperatures dropped. One said, "Oh, I love it. I never wear a coat. I just don't feel cold!"

I told her that she was, of course, clinically insane and probably a danger to herself, but I filed away the comment about not feeling the cold. And, this winter, I decided I just wasn't going to feel cold. It's as simple as that. It is true that for me, it's a moral failure to get sick (this does not apply to anyone but me, understand). And so, it could also be true that feeling cold is a moral failure. A lack of sufficient inner strength to maintain my own comfort in the face of below-freezing temperatures.

Oddly enough, it's working. Each morning, I get up and put on my warm and weatherproof athletic pants and cycle the 1.25 miles to the MBTA station. I peel off a layer or two when I get on the subway, and I arrive at work feeling energized and butch. Almost each day at lunch, I go for a 10 minute walk around Chinatown. I do not feel the icy wind as it rips between buildings. I don't feel the familiar ache in my fingers or my ears. I refuse to be uncomfortable.

Thursday, I had meetings, one in Boston and one in Medford, followed by an appointment in Harvard Square. The earlier meeting, the Boston one, was just my staff meeting, so ana attached the bike rack to the car, and dropped me off in Medford. It was the beginning of the January thaw, and, compared to the single-digit wind chills I'd been experiencing, the barely-above-freezing temperatures felt positively balmy. I locked up my bike, worked until time to call in to meeting one, walked over to meeting two, and then it was time for the three-mile ride to my therapist's office.

It was, by this time, in the mid-30sF, and I didn't bother to change out of my black pants and black-and-red-and-purple striped button-down shirt with my clockwork cufflinks. I shoved my fleece jacket into my pannier, pulled on my gloves and helmet, and took off, standing high on my pedals as I reveled in the breeze on my face. I pedaled hard down College Ave from campus, and flipped off a car who came a bit too close, and felt the surge of adrenaline as I raced for the green light in Davis Square.

I caught my breath as I waited for the light to turn onto Mass Ave, and took my time as I kept an eye out for double-parked delivery trucks and people opening their car doors. I felt fucking fantastic. I made it to Harvard Square in record time, considering lights and traffic and such, and locked my bike in front of the coffee shop closest to my therapist's office. I drank tea and realized that Darwin's was really much too warm.

I walked into the office smiling, holding my tea.

"You're biking?" asked the therapist. "It's cooold." She drew the word out and and mimed a shiver.

"Eh," I said. "It's above freezing, so not so bad at all. I was feeling pretty good on the ride here."

She nodded encouragingly.

I shrugged to say it's just weather; no big deal. "I guess, I just decided that this year, I'm not going to let the winter get to me as much. It's too much of a pain in the ass to whine about the weather now. So, you know, I ride my bike. I go to yoga. Walk the dogs. Whatever."

"You," she told me, "have become a New Englander."

That night, I asked ana if we could go to  Redbones, where I had pulled barbecue pork, and collard greens, and fried okra, and dirty rice. But I walked back to the car without gloves, coat unzipped, and enjoyed the wind in my hair.