I feel like I’ve been stuck in a rut for, say, the last ten years or so. It’s not that I haven’t done anything--I got married, had two kids, and earned a (minimally challenging) master’s degree. But during the nineties, while my two sisters were earning, respectively, a medical degree and a Ph.D. in social psychology, and my brother was studying in Venice, I spent an inordinate amount of time warming the bench at Red Robin, downing Happy Hour appetizer specials. Let’s just say my life has lacked a certain zest.

The New Year is always a time that is ripe for change, and perhaps the coincidence of my recent thirtieth birthday spurred me to action. Whatever my motivation, I decided that the inaugural event for my new life of high adventure would be a Polar Bear Swim. What is a Polar Bear Swim, you ask? It is a bizarre tradition started by jokers who enjoy watching stupid people make fools of themselves. In the middle of the winter, groups of people (the aforementioned “fools”) leap into frigid bodies of water, wearing nothing more than underwear. These people then cavort amid the ice floes, often loudly stating to bystanders how “invigorating” and “rejuvenating” the water feels. The resulting human popsicles are then removed from the water and fed to the local zoo’s polar bears as a special New Year’s treat.

On New Year’s Eve, I called the event organizer. She sounded jolly and hardy. “Should I bring anything?” I asked. “Well, uh, maybe a towel to dry off with,” she said, obviously thinking I had pudding for brains. “Um, yeah I know, but it said in the paper to call this number for more information. Is there more information?” “Oh, we just want to get people’s names.” Probably so she can record them on her stupid fool quota sheet, I thought. “It’s gonna be great--surefire cure for a hangover, man.” Man? Hangover? Was I out of my coolness league? I’m lucky if I can see Dick Clark through until midnight, dude. “We’ll bring an axe in case we have to chop through the ice,” she said.

I called my Brazilian friend Vivi to tell her what I was doing. “Swim...in the Cayuga Lake? Tomorrow?” she asked. I could tell she thought she was just misunderstanding me, thinking, Americans aren’t really that dumb, are they? I don’t know the Portuguese phrase for “flaming idiot” so I just explained it again, slowly. She burst out laughing. “I will come watch you! I need to see this! You must drink whiskey!”

A dull sense of dread crept through my body starting the afternoon before the plunge. To distract myself I started looking for my bathing suit, a sporty number I bought when I was training for a triathlon in Seattle. Pulling it out of the closet, I shuddered involuntarily, remembering how little protection the skimpy material had provided when I swam in Lake Washington...in August. I pulled on another bathing suit and a pair of bicycle shorts, and stood shivering in my house. The thermostat was set at 70 degrees. It was supposed to be in the thirties on New Year’s Day. Did I want to die, and leave my young children motherless? What made me think this swim was going to change my life, anyway? I don’t even like swimming.

Vivi called me back. “My foolish husband, he is going in the lake with you. You talk to him.” She handed the phone to Paulo. He was giggling hysterically. I gave him the details, along with the number “for more information,” and hung up. Charles came home, and I told him Paulo was going to do it too. “Paulo? He’s from Brazil! And he’s skinny. He’s going to die!” Charles exclaimed. “What about me?” I asked. “You’ve got, er, uh--you’re curvy,” he said, scurrying into the other room. Curvy? Sigh.

On New Year’s Day, we woke to blustery skies. It was 32 degrees outside. We bundled the wee people and left for the beach, bolstered by lots of coffee and wool. When I took off my clothes in the chill wind I balked. But the camera was rolling, and perverse pride wouldn’t let me wimp out. I ran into the water up to my chest, and it felt like my lungs had been wrapped in cement. I immediately lost all sensation in my legs, which gave me the odd feeling that I was bobbing on the surface, even though my feet were still on the ground. I had planned to hang out for a while, showing off how tough I was, but my sensible body took over from my insensible mind and headed for shore. “You looked like you were frolicking a little,” Charles said later. “That was thrashing,” I replied.

Paulo did not, in fact, die. He showed up fashionably late and bombed into the water wearing a Brazilian soccer uniform. Over lunch that afternoon, we discussed the fact that we still could not feel our feet. I ended up winning a prize for “best costume”--though I suspect they gave it to me because I was the only person in a costume who was left when the organizers got done getting dressed. Everyone else fled the scene as quickly as humanly possible. Did the plunge change my life? Not really. But there is a certain something, a gutsiness that had been lost by the wayside, that’s back. Plus I won a really nice blanket.

I know where I’ll be next January 1st, and you’re welcome to join me. You bring the whiskey, I’ll bring the axe.