With each passing year, my body gives me yet another rude wake-up call that I'm getting old.

First, my hair got a bit grayer.
My eyes got a bit weaker.
My hearing has turned my life into a game of “What did you say?”

And now my blood has gotten a lot thinner.
I know this because I'm cold. I'm always cold.
Fortunately, Bonnie is the same way. No matter where we are, what we’re wearing, or what the weather is like around us, we’re constantly complaining about how cold it is. Like now.
Even as I write this on a kind of mild October day that feels more like spring than frost season, it's just not warm enough for my blood.

Friends have suggested I move to Florida, but I'm thinking, isn't it warmer in Chile?
These days, I walk into a room and feel for drafts by windows and doors. I check to see what the thermostat is set at and how it compares to the temperature outside.
I even keep a Mr. Rogers-style sweater in my office in case there's a breeze.

About a month ago, without any warning, I started to channel the snowbird ghosts of Del Boca Vista, blurting out to no one in particular, “It's chilly! It's chilly!”

The first time I heard myself, I had this vision of sitting on a park bench with Roz Lewis and my Nanny Ethel, the three of us hunched over, wearing glasses, orthopedic shoes, shawls, and a pained expression as we cried out in unison, like some deranged a cappella group: “It's chilly! It's chilly!”
Then I really got the chills.

Mom would have found my need for warmth very amusing, considering how I called her the warmest, warm-blooded mammal on the planet. She had an apartment that radiated enough heat to wilt tropical plants.
I always wondered how someone could survive living in a sauna.
My boys now ask me that same question every time they get into my car.
“Aren't you hot?” They ask, peeling off their jackets while frantically trying to open the windows, a move meant to let the hot air out and keep their eyeballs from singeing.
“Can't you turn the heat down a bit?” asks one son, carefully tilting from one side to the other, so as not to permanently stick to the seat.

I'm able to allow for the occasional cool breeze by keeping the heater on my seat, set at boiling.
Just to show I'm not completely crazy, in the summer, I make sure the dial never moves past simmer.
When they come into the house, they look at us with a mix of pity and horror. I’m sitting in the living room, in July, wearing a fleece vest and flannel pajama pants. Bonnie has wool socks, a hoodie, and is wrapped in a heated blanket cranked up to "Incinerate."

Being an always-chilly boomer changes your entire lifestyle. You no longer look at fashion for style; you look for thermal efficiency. Our wardrobe has devolved into endless layers. I look like a nesting doll made of Gore-Tex and merino wool. She doesn’t go anywhere without a "backup hoodie," which sits in the backseat of my car like an emergency life raft.

Going for groceries is like crossing the threshold into a commercial meat locker. I find myself sprinting past the dairy aisle, teeth chattering, grabbing the milk like I'm a contestant on a survival game show.

I'm starting up the holiday list to keep my blood flowing. Battery-heated socks, gloves and jacket, wool cap, and if that fails, two one-way tickets to Chile.