Look, I know what you’re thinking: “Why is he wearing shorts in a blizzard?”. Simple answer: it wasn’t cold enough for pants yet.

See, there’s a finely calibrated scale all men possess — a heat index forged in garages, basements, and the frozen food aisle at Costco. And according to my internal sensors, the moment I stepped outside and my kneecaps immediately tried to retreat into my pelvis, I thought:

“Ah, brisk. Refreshing. Good shorts weather.”

My wife, wrapped in 14 layers like an Arctic sherpa, informed me that it was twelve degrees. Negative twelve, if you factor in the wind chill. But what she doesn’t understand is that wind chill is a government suggestion, not an actual number. And besides, putting on pants this early in the season is basically admitting defeat. Next thing you know, society collapses.

So I powered forward, confidently, heroically, refusing to let my legs acknowledge the concept of weather.

At one point I noticed my shins had stopped registering on the visual spectrum, but I told myself that was probably just the “cool” setting kicking on. A man’s thermostat is located somewhere inside his ego, and mine was set firmly at:

“I’ll be fine.”

After about an hour, my toes shifted from “cold,” to “numb,” to “mysteriously crunchy.” I wiggled them for science. Nothing happened. Not even a little. Honestly, the convenience is incredible — for the first time in my life, I can’t feel the rocks in my shoes.

My wife kept asking:

“Why don’t you just go put on pants?”

But see, if I do that now, she wins. And I love her, I do — but not enough to give her that satisfaction.

Anyway, the good news is my toes have stopped complaining. Completely. Haven’t felt a thing in hours.

The bad news is they’ve started turning a bold, confident shade of black.

Probably just poor circulation.

Or shadowing.

Or bravery.

But hey — I’m not cold.