Winter, You Frosty Little Menace

Zürich didn’t ease me into winter this year, no gentle breeze, no soft transition.
No.
It slapped me straight across the face with a “–3°C, deal with it” attitude.

And listen… I am not the same woman I was ten years ago.

Back then, I’d trot around the Christmas markets in a flimsy jacket, hair blowing in the wind like some carefree snow fairy. No hat, no scarf, no concept of mortality. I was basically heat-resistant.

Now?
Now I step outside and immediately transform into someone who makes involuntary old-people noises.

Ever since getting diagnosed with a chronic illness, the cold hits like a personal attack. Suddenly, all those “Make sure you dress warm!” comments from adults I used to ignore are my entire personality.

My winter look these days?
Michelin Man, but make it fashion!

I’ve got a thiccccc winter coat (think: wearable duvet), scarf wrapped like I’m preventing whiplash, gloves that practically have their own zip code, and a hat that eliminates any evidence I ever had eyebrows.

And yes, I still try to look chic.
Because this is Zürich, and the local retirement home residents dress better than most major influencers.

But you know what makes all the cold worth it?
That moment when your fingers are basically frozen sausages, and someone hands you a steaming Glüehwii.
Instant bliss.
Instant healing.
Instant “I forgive winter for everything.”

But the true winter highlight? Our yearly White Turf St. Moritz tradition.

Every year, my friends and I drag ourselves to the bougiest ice event imaginable, because if we’re going to freeze, we might as well freeze somewhere glamorous.

As soon as the temperature drops, I start planning my outfit like I’ve been invited to an alpine Met Gala…
on a budget, of course.

Everyone at White Turf looks like they’ve stepped out of a haute couture snow globe, fur, feathers, fabrics with unpronounceable names. Meanwhile I’m standing there in my affordable, well-layered ensemble like:
“Can I sit with you rich people? I promise I’m warm.”

Last year I survived a snowstorm without getting sick, and honestly? That felt like I should’ve received a medal, a certificate, and maybe a parade. So this year I’m prepared, I know exactly how many layers, how many socks, and how many hot drinks it takes to keep me alive.

(Pro tip: Glühwein + Kaiserschmarrn = the winter combo of survival.)

So yes, winter is rude.
Winter is disrespectful.
Winter is a frostbitten scam.

But between Christmas markets, White Turf traditions, and all the hot drinks I can physically hold, I’m finally learning how to enjoy it, or at least tolerate it in style.

And if I sound like an old lady when I talk about dressing warm?
Fine.
At least I’m an old lady who knows how to accessorize and hold a Glühwein with confidence.