Frigid

For as long as I can remember, I have had an aversion to the cold. I'm fairly certain it can be traced back to a childhood spent, by force, largely out-of-doors. Every day, no matter the temperature, we were sent outside to play. We've always attributed this to my mother's Scandanavian upbringing.
In winter, we would be bundled into snowsuits, wool mittens and socks, boots, hats to the point of relative immobility and sent outdoors. Within minutes our noses were running, our cheeks were pink, and our mittens were wet which rendered them, not only useless for retaining warmth, but conductors of the cold to the point that our fingers were stinging. Whereupon we'd beg to come inside. To no avail.
Winter, for me will always conjure memories of sledding down the hill in our back yard; snowsuit zippers, mittens and bootlaces crusted with icy snow; and begging at the window to be allowed inside for cocoa.
Now I just have the cocoa.