It was a cold day today. 14 degrees Celsius, 57 degrees Fahrenheit, with a 7 mph wind headed west. It was even colder at night, dipping into the 40s Fahrenheit. I've never minded cold weather, so I headed out in a t-shirt, jeans, and flip-flops like I always do. The chill starts at my extremities, but it never completes the trip up my arteries and veins into the rest of my body, held back by the cellular respiration that burns somewhere between 2500 and 3500 Calories per day, or on average 125 Calories per hour, 2 Calories or so per minute. The part of me that takes refuge in objectivity and numbers contemplates the analogy to steady-flow conditions that my body is currently in: even if I can never be in thermal equilibrium, at least the derivative of my body temperature with respect to time is zero.
Normally I don't mind the cold. But today it's not my feet or hands that are really cold, although they are numb from the chill of the night air coming in through the open window. I put on my warm socks and ensconce myself carefully in my bed. My feet may still be cold, but that's not really the point of these socks. I wasn't lying when I said I would wear these socks when I felt cold; I just didn't tell you that it's not my feet I'm trying to keep warm.
You may never understand exactly what I mean, but that's okay with me.
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