Older means colder
The other morning I walked down the driveway to the mailbox and it felt cold enough to freeze the whiskers off a polar bear. Even though it was 49 degrees, it felt like 19 to me. At first I blamed it on our scorching summer, figuring that my body had yet to adjust to the change in temperatures.
After all, global warming had its sweaty fingers around Berks County’s neck all summer. Heat and humidity squatted here and drenched us with their blast-furnace fury. It felt like they were smothering us in a mammoth wool blanket.
There were days I thought I’d dissolve into a sea of sweat as puddles of perspiration pooled in my sneakers. There were thermal burn zones cooler than my neighborhood some July and August days.
Perhaps the abrupt transition from summer to autumn is partially responsible for my body’s thermostat being off kilter.
But after quickly obtaining my degree from Harvard Medical School, I learned that those of us who have sliced our way into the rough of old age are as fragile as a Venetian chandelier.
Older means colder. That’s what we get for being older than some Third World countries.
Increased cold sensitivity, like mangled spinal columns, cataracts and knees bone on bone, is a normal part of aging. Older adults have a thinner layer of fat under the skin, making us more susceptible to cold.
Age slows metabolism. When your metabolic rate decreases, so does your body’s response to cold. Certain body receptors don’t work as quickly to tell your blood vessels to constrict and maintain your body temperature.
The reason I was chilly walking down my driveway that morning was because my blood vessels were slower than molasses. Aging blood vessels lose elasticity. When your blood vessels aren’t as flexible, your circulation decreases — making it harder for your body to retain heat.
I find all of this to be somewhat contradictory. Because as we grow more rings around our middle as part of the aging process, you would think we’d be more insulated against the cold.
Think again. With the notable exceptions of Tom Brady and Peter Pan, we all get screwed by old age.
I’ve never allowed the fingers of anxiety to grasp my neck and throttle me. But now I’m anxious about the coming winter.
Whenever I walk outside will it feel like I’m Napoleon straggling home from the Russian front in the winter of 1812?
While a mere child, I do recall that the winter of 1812 was colder than a witch’s heart.
Youth is a friend to all of us. But youth is a fickle friend, more fleeting than good news in America these days.
It’s somewhat sad when friends, like timber from a shipwrecked boat, drift apart when borne on different currents.