Every year in early October I drag out my cache of winter gear. It includes what looks to be a giant sleeping bag with arms impersonating a coat, pink wool booties knitted by my grandmother, a DVD of a crackling fire (that will play continuously on my living room television for the subsequent six months) and a large, worn collection of fuzzy tights. My boyfriend, at the first seasonal sighting of said leggings, will heave a heavy sigh and say ruefully, "Legs, see you in the spring." 

What can I say? I get cold. Really cold. I've survived thirty-six years in New England and every 12 months I wonder, "When am I going to be awarded a medal for my suffering?" You see, I am not just a sun-worshipper, I am a heat-worshipper. Patrick Henry was speaking for me and other frigid New Englanders when he said, "Give me bronzed skin and sweaty pores or give me death."

Needless to say, this year's drop in temperatures have also graced me with the added bonus of severe allergies. My nose drips. My eyes drip. I sneeze at hourly intervals in sets of 8 or 10. It's as though I'm in winter training for the Head Cold Olympics. (Not to brag, but I'm pretty sure I could nail the Sinus Slalom.)

The other day in the car I asked my boyfriend if he minded grabbing something out of my handbag. After a long quiet moment I looked over to see him peering down into it, wide-eyed, disturbed.

"What?" I asked.

 "It's…it's like a Fear Factor challenge," he stammered, then cautiously stuck his hand into the mass of semi-used tissues that proliferate in the dark caverns of my oversized bag.

It's possible I may single-handedly be keeping the tissue companies in business. It's also possible I may be allergic to tissue. Either way, I'm almost positive this is my year to finally earn that darned medal.