It seems to be the general consensus of my family, friends, and co-workers that I am...not physically strong. And I pretty much am a fairy princess. I make no pretenses as to the extent of my pain tolerance. I don't like shots, I cry when I get a paper cut. But these are things other people insist don't hurt at all. But to me it feels very very bad, like something is STABBING ME or CUTTING ME. And that's exactly what's happening. They can pretend it doesn't hurt them, but I know that they're just trying to show off or something because I know it's a horrible pain that I dread.
However, there is one form of tolerance that surpasses most peoples', and that's my temperature tolerance. To clarify, I live in Austin, Texas and we wear flip-flops year round. It doesn't get cold until mid-December, and the temperature rarely drops below fifty five for more than a few days the entire duration of winter. It starts warming up again in February, usually within a week of Valentine's Day.
Now, I am always cold. I wear jackets year round, always bring one with me because I know I will get cold eventually. I keep a personal heater under my desk at work in addition to bringing a jacket. Sometimes I even wear long sleeves with the jacket, and in the dead of summer. I am always packing heat, so to speak. I can survive in cold. I mean, once the temperature hits about sixty five it all feels the same to me, so there is no dramatic difference to me if the temperature drops to forty five or thirty or even twelve (which I haven't seen in Texas but it did get that cold when we visited Daddy in Virginia) because it all feels so much the same to me. I can survive in cold just fine, even happily because I love wearing scarves and hats.
Similarly, heat doesn't bother me. It takes a lot of heat to make me sweat. If it's not over one hundred and ten degrees, I'm not going to even complain about it. I'm completely comfortable in jeans an a t-shirt while my friend in tank tops and shorts are fanning themselves complaining bitterly that it gets hotter and hotter every year.
I use my heater under my desk even in the middle of summer. It's on right now, although it's ninety five degrees outside and the sun is out. While everybody else waits eagerly for winter to arrive, I'm eagerly basking in the warmth that I so very rarely feel, armed with SPF 70 sunblock and a linen jacket to protect my skin from harmful ultra-violet rays. On my days off, I shut off the air conditioner and open the doors and windows, enjoying the humidity and the warmth that will not last because Boyfriend and Roommate will immediately reverse it when they come home.
So they can make fun of me for crying when I stub my toe or stabbing my fingers with a sewing needle or when I get a paper cut. That's fine. I like to laugh at everyone when it's only ninety two degrees outside and they complain that it's so hot it's like walking into an oven.
Survival of the fittest. I can still run with a paper cut. They can hardly walk when it's "too hot". Wimps.