Odd that folks who're cold when no one else is are considered pantywaists, while their hotter-blooded brethren, sweat beaded dreamboatily on their upper lips, come off as rugged, sexy. There's really no reason this should be. Why's one strain of poor internal temperature control a sign of weakness while the other's a sign of strength? In fact, aren't the cold-blooded in a sense tougher, as they share their cold-blooded circulatory system with the reptile kingdom? They're closer to the black mamba, the devilishly striped Caribbean-slicing sea snake, for God's sake the Komodo dragon. The Komodo dragon, with its flesh-rotting spittle and Mesozoic hissing, would like to be wearing a sweater most of the time too. So why's it those strutting malarials that we regard as the cool ones? With their mania for open windows in December, their unending flush, their sneering condescension toward people who don't feel overheated as promiscuously as they do? And why have I spent the last couple years struggling to switch teams, from the cardigan crew to the upper-lip-sweat crew, with much internal crowing when at last I succeeded? And for god's sake hit the A/C, it's like an Ecuadorean coal shaft in here.