281. Frozen Fingers

I’m not good with the cold.

Don’t get me wrong – I don’t like the blistering heat as much as the next person, and I do enjoy a little chill in the wind. But when the cold starts getting under my skin and into my bones, that’s where I draw the line.

The air-cond in my room hasn’t been switched on in years now. Only two or three years ago, when one particular Sunday afternoon’s heat became too much to stand, did I turn the ancient machine on. What came out was first a splutter of dust, but it still worked anyhow.

(and that’s a miracle if I’ve ever seen one)

It’s just my misfortune that the rest of the world has a much better tolerance of the cold than I do.

I recall numerous, numerous times out with a group of friends, when they would begin to complain about how hot it was, and I’d just remark that the weather – far from hot – was actually quite pleasantly warm. These comments are usually brushed aside.

(one must be prepared to be brushed aside when disagreeing with others. This, however, has nothing to do with whether the one disagreeing is right or wrong or completely off the rocker)

It’s probably the sole reason why my brother doesn’t want to share a room with me anymore. I just can’t sleep with the air-cond. It’s okay for the first couple of hours, but then the chill starts to invade my body started with the feet and hands, piercing through the blanket. Then my nose gets stuck, and then I get the sniffles, and then I wake up feeling miserable.

It’s also my misfortune that the church to which I belong is likely the coldest church in the Klang Valley. Even dressed in a full suit, it’s a struggle every Sunday morning against hypothermia.

(I jest, but there is truth in every hyperbole)

Now I am seated at my place at work, my fingers slowing down as the minutes pass, the cold paralyzingly my muscles, clogging up the nerves, numbing the receptors.

I really should get gloves.

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