As the daughter of a man who, for reasons unbeknownst to me, keeps his television tuned to the Weather Channel for the greater part of his day, I have been raised with an almost obsessive tendency to track the daily highs and lows of my climactic environment. Combined with a severe inability to tolerate temperatures that dip below freezing and a personality that borders on dangerously
neurotic, my constant weather tracking led me to create a precise plan of action for dealing with Kingston’s often frigid airs. Every year, on Oct. 1, my chic fall clothing gives way to a hooded parka, insulated mittens, thermal knee-high socks and my trusted, full-body coat of armor: Helly Hanson long underwear.
In years past, there has been, of course, the odd moment when my winter attire was met with ridicule from students revelling in an unseasonably decent day. They, barbequing in Bermuda shorts and flip flops, would gawk as I shuffled to class with nary a visible body part underneath my toasty layers. For the most part, however, my rigid weather protection plan offered much-needed security in our
dangerous Canadian landscape of blustery winds and surprise snowstorms, and I often had the last laugh as I watched the poor saps who hadn’t had the foresight to put on their treaded winter boots before trekking to class that morning.
And so, it was no different this year. On Oct. 1, I pulled my Helly Hanson’s from the closet and readied myself for six months with a second skin of synthetic safety. At first, the weather progressed as I had expected. Cold winds, frequent rain and dreary days were hints of the brutal winter to come. But it
never did.
Day in and day out, I awoke to sunshine and chirping birds outside my window, wondering whether or not to continue with my cold weather routine. Should I accept the bizarre and disconcerting warmth, shun my Helly Hanson’s and the trusted protection they had so willingly provided for three long years?
It only takes one look at the waistband of my pants to answer that question. Stretched over my belly button, my off-white long underwear remains, and will remain, until the Weather Channel announces the first day of spring. Call me crazy, but it just wouldn’t be winter in Kingston without the mild discomfort and awkward chafing that I’ve come to know and love. You could even say that this is my own unique form of environmental activism. If I wear them, winter will come.
So if you see me on campus, my winter boots tramping through dirt and beads of sweat pouring out from underneath my parka’s hood, stop and think for a minute: Sure, mini-skirts and Ugg boots are great, but if you feel something missing (and I know you do), go home and scrounge around for that long underwear you thought you could do without this year. Put it on, and me in proclaiming solidarity with winter.
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