Baby, It's Cold Outside

Did you know that it's harder for asthmatics to breath when it's cold out? Well, it is. I've known about this for years; Kalman supposedly had asthma as a kid. I say supposedly because the only time it bothered him was when he was playing basketball in the backyard and it was freezing out. I might add parenthetically that the aforementioned basket that we put up in the backyard was way more trouble than it was worth. Kids started showing up on their own to play, whether Kalman was there or not. In fact, they came whether we were home or not. It didn't really bother me that much; after all, what harm could come from a bunch of kids playing in the backyard, right? The biggest problem was my neighbors. Our house was right across the street from a public school, so eventually the group playing included kids from there as well. As long as it was just yeshiva boys, my enlightened neighbors never said a word. As soon as students from PS 99 started showing up, the proverbial excrement hit the proverbial fan. I remember like it was yesterday when a black kid, who had come to play uninvited, used the spigot on my next-door neighbor's house (that she used to water her lawn) to quench his thirst. She went totally ballistic. She enlisted the help of some others on the block and confronted me about what was going on. Prejudice on parade. I thought they were going to tar-and-feather me and ride me out of town on a rail. Of course being the reasonable young man that I was, the more they complained, the more I dug in my heels and refused to do anything. I'd like to think I'd be more receptive to other people's concerns today, but way back then I really was not a very cooperative fellow. Perhaps a lot of my attitude had to do with being stuck in a pretty bad marriage, but that's a pretty lame excuse. I didn't do a thing until the situation got completely out of hand and there were kids playing ball all hours of the day and disturbing me. I put up a sign stating that no one could use the basket without permission. Yeah, right...that'll work. When they just kept coming, I must say I came up with a rather ingenious solution. I took the front grill of one of those big, oscillating fans and fit it on the basket, and secured it with two locks. It fit perfectly. The kids drifted away immediately; it was like spraying Raid. Of course I had to climb up and unlock the darn thing every time Kalman and his friends wanted to play, but considering the basket was only about seven feet high, it wasn't too bad. So getting back to cold weather; Kalman found it harder to breathe cold air, and so do I. I first noticed it the Friday I performed at the Sephardic Nursing Home for the first (and last) time (see "Breathless in January, Part Two", July 30th). It was during an extreme cold snap, and my breathing issues were on their way to landing me in the ICU of Columbia Presbyterian. I shlepped my equipment back and forth in maybe 15 or 18 degree weather. To make matters worse, Babby had come along to shep nachas* from her favorite middle child. She sat in the car with me while I tried, for about five minutes, to catch my breath. Five minutes may not sound like much, but when you're gasping for air, it seems like five hours. So here we are again, on the cusp of winter. There have been some genuinely cold days, and my lungs have responded predictably. Walking any substantial distance has me huffing and puffing, and anything the least bit strenuous (e.g. taking out the garbage) has the same result. In keeping with my new policy of always looking for the silver lining in any given situation, I've decided that my new pulmonary woes have arrived just in time for my appointment with a New York City doctor who will examine me and determine whether or not I'm eligible for a Handicapped Parking Permit. My appointment is this Wednesday, and I intend to post about it soon. Meawhile, I think I'll just stay home a lot and drink Hot Chocolate while watching Judge Judy. Definitely sounds like a plan.

* Shep nachas = very loosely translated, it means to be proud of one's progeny. Or spouse. Or french poodle. Or whatever.