New Hampshire Apparently Did Something to Me

New Hampshire Apparently Did Something to Me

I have discovered disturbing evidence that spending ten months in New Hampshire permanently altered my physiology.

I have not consulted a physician about this, mainly because physicians tend to become irritated when you make appointments for things like, “I seem to have become slightly more resistant to cool weather.”

Nevertheless, the evidence is compelling.

Before I arrived in New Hampshire on December 15, 2023, I was a South Floridian whose definition of “cold” began somewhere around the temperature at which other Americans say, “You might want to bring a light sweater.”

Temperatures in the 50s?

Sweater.

Temperatures in the 40s?

Jacket.

Temperatures in the 40s indoors?

Clearly civilization had collapsed, and we were waiting for FEMA to distribute blankets.

That was 2023 Me.

Then I moved to New Hampshire.

This turned out to be what scientists probably call “environmental adaptation” and what I frequently called, “Why is there so much damn snow?”

I lived there from December 15, 2023, until October 17, 2024, which gave me most of a New England winter and plenty of time to discover that snow is considerably more charming on Christmas cards than it is when you actually have to go outside in it.

Some days, retrieving a package became an expedition.

UPS drivers sometimes left packages down by the side of Hutwill Drive, which meant I had to venture out and get them. In Florida, retrieving a UPS package is an errand. You walk outside, pick it up, and go back inside.

In New Hampshire, I sometimes found myself stumbling through knee-deep snowdrifts like a member of an underfunded polar expedition.

“You must reach the package before nightfall.”

“But sir, the drifts!”

“Your country is counting on you.”

There were other reminders that I wasn’t in Florida anymore.

Every so often, I could look out my office window and see a bear cub.

A bear cub.

This is adorable in roughly the same way that discovering a baby velociraptor outside your office would be adorable. You admire it while simultaneously remembering that somewhere nearby there is presumably a substantially larger bear who may have strong opinions about you looking at her child.

And then there was the landscape itself.

On particularly wintry days, I could look outside at all that snow and feel less like a writer working in rural New Hampshire and more like Luke Skywalker wandering across the frozen plains of Hoth.

All that was missing was a tauntaun.

Which was probably just as well.

I have enough trouble with dogs.

Somewhere during those ten months, apparently, my internal thermostat received a software update.

Because this morning in Bithlo, Florida, I woke up to 47 degrees.

My reaction?

Nothing.

I put on a Star Wars T-shirt.

Jeans.

Socks.

Shoes.

That’s it.

No sweater.

No jacket.

No desperate attempt to construct an emergency shelter from blankets and couch cushions.

As I write this, it is 56 degrees outside, and I still haven’t put on a jacket.

2023 Me would be horrified.

“Do you realize it’s only 56 degrees?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re wearing a T-shirt.”

“Yes.”

“You need a jacket.”

“No.”

At this point, 2023 Me would probably stare at me with the horrified expression of a man who has just discovered that his future self has joined a cult.

But 2026 Me has seen things.

I have stumbled through knee-deep snow to retrieve UPS packages.

I have looked out my office window and seen bears.

I have gazed upon a snow-covered New Hampshire landscape and wondered whether Han Solo was going to come looking for me.

Forty-seven degrees?

Please.

I have been to Hoth.

Of course, I realize that lifelong New Englanders will not be impressed by any of this.

Somebody in New Hampshire is probably reading this while wearing shorts and saying, “Forty-seven? That’s cute.”

Fair enough.

Let us not get carried away. I have not become a New Englander.

If the temperature in Bithlo ever drops to 28 degrees, I reserve the right to put on every piece of clothing I own, turn on whatever heating devices are available, and inform the dogs that nobody is going outside until April.

But something has definitely changed.

2023 Me regarded temperatures in the 40s as an existential threat.

2026 Me wakes up to 47 degrees, puts on a Star Wars T-shirt, and gets on with his morning.

Ten months in New Hampshire hardened me.

Not dramatically.

Not enough to make me want another New England winter.

Certainly not enough to make me volunteer to trudge through snow to retrieve an Amazon package.

But enough that a chilly November morning in Central Florida no longer sends me automatically searching for a jacket.

I consider this personal growth.

Or possibly nerve damage.