In succession on Christmas Eve, I stripped wrapping paper off boxes that contained 1) a quilted flannel shirt, 2) furry-lined slippers and 3) a small-sized electric blanket meant to throw over oneself as oneself is lying on the couch watching TV.

I could not have been more excited. I may as well have been 8-years-old unwrapping a Lionel train set. Or 14-years-old unwrapping a subscription to Playboy. I did not attempt to hide my glee.

My level of enthusiasm startled my wife and child. They gave me The Look that said, “It’s not a Corvette, a condo in Aspen and Sofia Vergara. It’s a shirt, slippers and blanket for goodness sake.” And then it dawned on my wife.

“Oh my God,” she gasped. “You’re old.”

Huh? I’m 48.

“No. You’ve turned old,” she said, sounding panicked now. “You’re, like, 70 now. Maybe 75.”

I don’t know what you’re talking about, I replied, lovingly caressing the red flannel of my new shirt-that-doubles-as-a-jacket.

And then she dropped the hammer.

“All you care about is staying warm this winter. You’re … (sob) … old.”

It hit me like a “Matlock” marathon. She was right. I loved those three presents because they’d allow me to bundle-and-shuffle around the house until spring came some time in mid-June. I could wake up, wiggle my feet into the slippers, slip on the flannel shirt and snuggle under the blanket while sipping my coffee and reading the paper.

Sure, I’d have to go outside once in awhile to let the dogs out or walk from my pickup into KFGO. There’d be stretches when I’d have to spend 30 or 40 seconds outside, in the elements, at one time. But other than that, I could sit in my chair for upwards of 16 hours a day with my electric blanket turned to high, look out the window at the frigid weather and say things like, “Uff da. Not fit for man or beast out there today.”

The worst part? I enjoyed the thought of it. At 48, after a lifetime of living in Minnesota and North Dakota, I decided I’d had enough of anything below 32 degrees.

I used to love the bitter cold. Thrive on it. Welcome it. Laugh at it. Go outside just to flaunt my disdain for polar vortices.

Now, I shrink at the thought of cold weather.

Oh, there’d been signs.

They started a couple of years ago when I realized I’d rather stay home and read a book in front of the fireplace on a Sunday rather than going ice-fishing in 10-below temperatures. But I’d attributed that to being a “family man,” that I’d rather stay home with my wife and kid than go sit in the middle of a frozen lake. Turns out it was denial, not some sort of newfound maturity.

Other hints started cropping up.

If there wasn’t anything to make for supper, I’d improvise with whatever was in the house instead of driving four miles through the cold to Hornbacher’s. Thus, the McFeelys began eating more peanut-butter-and-Cheez-It sandwiches than your average Moorhead family.

The mail sat in the mailbox – located all the way across the street, about 33 steps from my front door – for three or four days at a time. Couldn’t be anything that important in there, right?

Unless it snowed more than 8 inches, I decided it was a waste of time to clear off the driveway. The ruts leading into the garage were good enough. And the March sun would eventually melt things.

I was once an avid feeder of the birds. Loved watching the nuthatches and chickadees flitting around my front yard. But instead of filling my feeders with seed, I figured the little freeloaders could fend for themselves. Isn’t that what a million years of evolution were for?

And the coup de grace: If I was hungry at lunchtime, I’d only go to a restaurant with a drive-through so I didn’t have to get out of my pickup. This limited my choices to fast-food burgers, tacos or bland submarine sandwiches. Didn’t matter. Just so I didn’t have to walk the 16 steps from my vehicle to the restaurant. I’d rather clog my arteries and shorten my life then have my nose and cheeks exposed to the wind-chill.

As I type these words, I’m sitting in my chair wearing a quilted flannel shirt and furry slippers while a heated electric blanket covers my legs. The fireplace is flickering. A hot cup of coffee sits on the table next to me, within arm’s reach. Outside, it is 12 degrees below zero. I have no intention of leaving my home until I have to, which will be tomorrow morning when I have to go to work.

My wife says I’m old. I say I’m wise. And next Christmas I have my sights set on a pair of electric heated slippers.

They tell me Fort Myers is wonderful this time of year.

(Mike McFeely is a talk-show host on 790 KFGO-AM in Fargo-Moorhead. He can be heard weekdays 2-5 p.m. Follow him on Twitter @MikeMcFeelyKFGO.)