Island Girl Coping Mechanism For When It’s Too Damn Winter

Growing up without Icelandic temperatures shapes you into a different being.

And this particular being put on a valiant front until climate change upped the ante in my current location with a well-timed sucker punch some years back that became standard.

Now it’s a “Well-timed Sucker Punch Annual” official calendar event that cannot be given a specific date.

Mess with the planet for long enough…the planet sho’ nuff gonna mess wit’ you.

Extreme weather events will stay on tap until the bipeds learn their lesson.

“Winter” and “cold temperatures” are distinct nouns able to exist independent of each other. Hence, I dug for winter clothes at the end of September.

Like for real.

And my tried and trusted winter ritual thingy?

Implementation as soon as the mercury fell consistently below 10˚C.

Because I need time dammit. Autumn (for me) is supposed to be a gradual decline and acclimatization into winter.

Oh well.

The Winter Ritual Descriptive Summary Since There Will NOT Be Any Photos

My fingers look as shrivelled as if I’d been swimming too long, but no. I’m soaking.

And soaking.

And soaking some more.

Marinating in delicious bath salts and scents under water so hot, it’s probably cooking me like some grotesque cannibalistic recipe I’m past caring about because warmth is life.

The Rationale

What can I say?

Nothing philosophically enduring.

The big bad freeze created an incurable heat addict.

Air temperature warmth rarely penetrates enough. My bones, brain, and entire inner anatomy need fire to keep me alive.

Not melodrama.

Not death by hypothermia.

It’s due to sheer overwhelm by frigid temperatures that my anatomical thermoreceptors shriek,

“For crying out freeeekin’ loud, AGAIN! Hell. Ahh. Noooooooo!”

Fun Fact: You cannot live very long without a functioning nervous system.

My neurons (nerve cells) are non-negotiable heavyweights that demand heat or they will pack it in.

Forever.

Ritual Resource Acquisition

I kinda sorta stockpile.

Just enough bath essentials beforehand to last me until every corrupt and disgusting political leader is permanently out of office and planetary equilibrium takes precedence over economic growth.

Said leaders probably think they’ll be in office until hell freezes over.

But we’re in luck.

Actually, gonna get THAT cold.

I’m like “YAY” but “BRRRRRRR!” Even while “liberating” new bath supplies from store shelves for my Winter H&H (Heat and Hydrotherapy) that technically constitutes a chemical reaction and cannot be stopped, altered, or reversed (Abundant receipts, my proof.)

Even through a potential ice age.

Especially through a potential ice age.

How did Italian bath gel luxuriousness that is Tesori J’Oriente become a necessity bought discounted at local outlets?

It seduced me at first whiff and now has me in proper scent addiction. Its ornately decorative metal container also doubles as a flower vase, reed diffuser reservoir, and/or an eye-catching vessel for homemade gifts.

And since I’m partial to woodsy and musky scents, bath suds foam in oud, cedar, amber, neroli, or sandalwood as the temperature readings dip so low, it’s best for me to simply close my eyes…in the custom bath spa experience of my own making.

I mean, who needs verified data in degrees when there’s ice covering my windscreen that has to be scraped off manually? When everyone walking outside is bundled up in poofy coats exhaling CO2 that is visible in ice-laden puffs? When the grass becomes frozen green spiky icicles, and the sidewalks nature-improvised ice rinks hazardous to life and limb that I never asked for?

Winter Ritual Implementation Phase

I stay submerged-body beneath the hot water line—yes, for hours on end. And yup, there’s only one bathroom.

Desperate times. Remember? Life threatening.

In all fairness, it’s often late at night.

And I do give notice to family on the usual social networks: WhatsApp, Instagram. Messenger. And Twitter which I’ll only call Twitter until the end of digital time.

I’ve got pumice stone. Nail brush. Back brush. Bath/Body oils. Boiling water that can deliver a heat haven. Time.

Of course, all those joules ain’t cheap. But I’m soooo past greedy energy companies with their ginormous rate increases when the year is at its coldest, plus their substandard method acting when portraying how much they sincerely care about customer financial hardship whilst raking in profit margin millions not likely if there weren’t people (in their billions) paying the bill every month.

Wrapped in lava liquid with bubbles up to my ears, my feet which feel eternally cold during winter, swirl contentment in the humidified impromptu steam room I’ve created. Tea lights and the potpourri burner create impenetrable ambiance backdrop against the blustery winds outside. My Bluetooth speaker croons ‘Soul and Smooth’ forever-favorites like only Aretha Franklin, Lauren Hill, D’Angelo, Luther, Jill, Maxwell, and others of that ilk can do.

Fiery vibes plummet me mind and spirit deep.

Heart beats slow. Deliberate.

Effective magic clears background checks with ease and has plenty testimonials.

Familiar faint creaks of windowpanes in molecular constriction mid-snowfall register inaudible in my personal swish-swish hot water haven.

I bless/caress every part of me which faced inhospitable death chills outdoors with warm wet prayers.

My legs whimper remembrance for soft subtropical sand beaches that rejuvenate in shorts all year round.

My spine and I carry on casual conversation now that “I’m finally doing something sensible.” (Her exact words.)

My nose experiences painful burns and frequent bleeds in bitter cold bleakness and is inconsolable. Consolation and reassurance always offered here that bath soak all-nighters and self-imposed house arrest would be no problem.

In this watery sanctuary, I reflect on a life journey that never dreamed of existence so far from the equator. I visualize the next country I shall reside in, kissing-close to that precious planetary ring.

As the weather forecast blares alerts and hazardous conditions with sub-zero readings and negligible road visibility on a television I don’t turn on.

Muscles retaining ample heat are stretchy. Transition by slither and slide into asanas could be an original concept I ideate whilst becoming a human slinky in my baignoir.* I entertain delusions of yoga master grandeur—but only in winter, and totally conditional on a functioning boiler.

Doesn’t sound as exotic when written on paper…

Only when worship-woozy and feverish-drunk on thermal healing do I emerge from those waters...steam vapors abundant and surreal, rising from every ounce of flesh like a goddess revived.

*Baignoire - French for bathtub.

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