I am developing an acute case of envy for those of you who live in the sunny clime of California. Here in the Northeast the trees are turning colors and the frost is on the pumpkin. If it would only stay on the cussed pumpkin I wouldn't object, but it is also invading my apartment, and wardrobe drawer.

Cold weather crossdressing presents special problems. Have you ever joyfully dug through your lacies and unmentionables and pulled out your favorite girdle only to have it clasp a band of arctic cold around your midriff until your precious limited body heat can soak into it? That silky smooth slip that is so kind to the legs in the summer becomes a sheet of solid ice skating over your shaved shanks. There are some advantages to high heels in winter. That pointy heel makes a great grip on ice and most of your foot is lifted off the cold floor, but the thin soles of women's shoes will not protect your tortured toes from cracking off one by one.

How in blazes can women wear skirts and hose at 15 degrees below zero? Is there a special brand of anti-freeze available only in shops that cater exclusively to genetic women, places that must be completely invisible to those of us with a Y chromosome in our makeup? There must be some rational explanation for the phenomenon. Do they give our TS sisters the secret once they complete their real life test? If so, how come not a single one has broken down and told the rest of us? There is no way on God's (previously) green earth I would venture outside into the snow in a skirt.

When I arrive at my frugally heated apartment in the mornings my gerbils have moved all their chips to one side of the cage and are buried somewhere in them. It is somewhat sobering to know that those rodents are smarter than myself. They only poke the tip of their noses out of their nest until I toss them their food, staying sensibly warm. I have formed the habit of keeping my jacket on, taking my nightgown and bra from the closet and placing them on the radiator in the bathroom. By the time I have thawed myself in the shower they are warm enough that the residual heat protects me as I race for the electric blanket. Try as I might I eventually awake to cold reality and must get out of bed.

There is nothing in this world that will wake you up faster than placing a silicone breast form at ambient room temperature against your unprotected chest. Of course I never remember to take them out of the drawer and warm them in the bed with me, that would take forethought and intelligence, qualities that are sadly lacking in my makeup before crawling into bed in a cold room. John Travolta has nothing on me as I dance around the room in reaction. Could his famous one hand in the air routine have resulted from trying to seat a frigid form in his bra? Reaching for the sky does move things around a little bit, spreading the agony as it were. Technology has provided an answer to this problem, however. Just as I can thaw out the supper I forgot to take out of the freezer in the microwave, about 2 minutes on high allows my breast forms to provide a shield of pleasant warmth between me and the cold, uncaring world.
Actually, this is not the problem it used to be. When I was on the road years ago, before I had the bread to purchase real breast forms, I stuffed my bosom with hot water bags filed with various semi liquid concoctions. Semi liquid, that is, at 72 degrees or so. When they sat in the back of the van all day they were rubber wrapped ice lumps in odd shapes created by the other items in my suitcase. Many was the hour I whiled away in a hot tub with two hot water bottles floating thither and yon, thawing until I could safely put them in to my bra cup.

There is one up side to winter. There is no more delicious feeling than snuggling into an ankle length, long sleeved flannel nightgown. Flannel is one of the most comforting fabrics mankind has created, almost worth putting up with cold to enjoy it. I have spent the last couple days at the sewing machine stitching and snipping to make myself a couple of snuggly warm nightgowns. Even the snarling of the sewing machine, mixed up pattern pieces ( actually I ended up cutting out a flannel dress before I noticed the problem, but who will know the difference?) and various pinpricks did not disturb the warm, womanly glow as I sat at the machine in my feminine finest and created new clothes for myself. I may make it through the winter yet.