Inspired to Be More Italian

There are days when I am inspired to be more Italian. "To try it out" even when there is no one around to witness me sitting alone in the gloom of a winter day, with my two-month-year-old daughter, without having turned on a single light. It’s not dark, but it’s not bright and cheery. In the beginning of December I was quite hopeful that I might even make it through the winter without turning the heat on during the day, but I guess I’m not Italian enough yet or broke enough. We already “only” do the laundry before 8am because the energy cost is half and I can barely stay awake past 7:30pm so after 8pm laundry is a lost option. 

We are not broke, let me clarify this. Not at all – these are just logical things to try and do, no matter how affluent you are. Mindful of waste, something I was not raised to be like – something my American culture rarely participates in – and I’m not going to lie, it’s not the easier way. It's not the more joyful way.  I’d rather walk around the house barefoot, admiring my seasonal toe nail choice of color, in a sexy Victoria's Secret slip than snuggled up in wool socks, warm leggings or sweatpants, and three layers of shirts for easier access to breastfeeding Farah. The top layer always has to be some type of zipper down to keep my shoulders warm when my chest is exposed and boobs-out for nursing. I discovered that if I wear cashmere I almost feel normal in the house. But cashmere and breastfeeding newborns and being a mother of two creates no harmony or still sense of mind.

And IF I have the heat on by chance and the in-laws come over, or my husband comes home, everyone acts like “oh my god,” tugging at their sweater around the neck or the chest, “it’s so hot in here.” And I’m thinking to myself, “are these people for real? You’ve got to be f’in kidding me.”

Before we moved to Tuscany and we used to visit my husband’s parents in the winter, there were many times that I would have to walk around their home wrapped in a blanket. I’m not kidding. I wasn’t used to it at all. My mother-in-law would smoke a cigarette on the terrace and then open all the windows and doors to air the apartment out and I was like, "but is this woman crazy?” while I'm sitting on the couch shivering wrapped up tight in a blanket, and his mother is speaking in dialect that I couldn't then understand, asking my husband, "but is this American girl crazy?" 

And then we moved here, and a winter passed, and I witnessed the difference airing out your house and your comforter can make, and my body acclimated to a chillier home, and my psyche accepted the fact of walking around like an eskimo in the house, even though I live in Italy and not the North Pole.

But there are days, I'm not going to lie, when I just need to turn them all on -- the lights and the heat -- when no one’s around. . . all to myself . . . and I feel wholesome again. Culture is a powerful thing.