The onset of colder weather has necessitated some serious rethinking regarding our outdoor attire. Gone are the days when you could simply toss on a T-shirt, go outside, and get nasty looks from your neighbors because you forgot to put on pants.

It’s time to drag out your heavy winter coat, your heavy snow boots, and your heavy winter socks. No wonder we feel like we’ve gained weight in the wintertime.

My wife and I live near a bustling university. When we drive past the campus, we often see young people languorously strolling to their classes wearing shorts, a T-shirt and flipflops — in the dead of winter!

We ask ourselves, “What’s wrong with those young people? Aren’t they familiar with the first law of thermodynamics which states that if you don’t wear thermal underwear in the wintertime your body temperature will dynamically plummet until you resemble a bag of frozen buffalo wings?”

Call me old-fashioned, but I adhere to the old-school philosophy that prioritizes comfort over fashion. What’s the point of looking attractive if you can’t talk because your teeth are chattering like a telegraph receiver?

Part of my problem is that I grew up in a different geological epoch. It was a time when people could make decisions without logging onto social media to assess the latest trends. Our main form of social media was our local weekly newspaper, which contained vast amounts of reportage regarding social activity in our community.

An example of this might read, “Mr. and Mrs. Alex Johnson and their toddler son, Andrew, visited the home of Mr. and Mrs. Oscar Stumley on Saturday afternoon. Mrs. Stumley served coffee and sandwiches.”

This sunny snippet probably obscured the real story. For instance, it could be that Mrs. Johnson was the Stumleys’ daughter and that the Johnsons lived in the house that the Stumleys had purchased so that the hyperactive toddler and his parents could finally move the heck out of the Stumleys’ basement. And that the real purpose of the Johnsons’ visit was to fob off little Andrew because they wanted to visit some friends and listen to that trendy new music called “polka.”

Another major issue with coming of age when I did was that my price point for many items became fixed at preposterously low levels. This has led to the impression that I’m a skinflint. Not so. I’m just stuck in the 60s.

Nobody took their car to an automotive professional for an oil change when I became old enough to drive. Oil changes were something that car owners — I’m including both genders here — did ourselves in our driveways. There’s nothing more rewarding than lying on cold, wet gravel and successfully loosening a stubborn filter while blistering your knuckles on a hot exhaust pipe.

An oil change for my car cost $10, which included five quarts of oil and a new filter. I probably saved $4 by doing it myself.

The summer when I was 16, a neighbor hired me to help with baling hay. I was paid the going rate of $1.75 per hour. When I took a girl to the movies that fall, admission was $1.75 per head. After the movie, dining at the Pizza Pub cost me another two hours’ worth of wages.

New tires for my car were $25 apiece at the local farm supply store. The tires came with vouchers that were good for mounting and balancing at Duff’s Tire.

Duff’s Tire was operated by an old guy named Duff. He would slowly and meticulously remove each wheel and install the new tire. Duff would then plunk the wheel onto a bubble level gizmo and place lead weights on the rim of the wheel until the bubble settled in the center. The lead weights looked ancient enough to have balanced the wheels of Roman chariots.

Piles of outdated newspapers and used tires sat next to the potbelly stove that squatted in a corner of Duff’s Tire. Neither pile ever grew, and Duff’s Tire was always toasty warm in the wintertime. It was a mystery.

This explains why, when my wife and I enjoy a meal at a non-fast-food restaurant and the check comes, I can’t help but think, “Cripes! I could’ve bought two or maybe three new tires, depending on the tip!”

Winter arrives and I’ll dig out my tattered and timeworn insulated coveralls. Some of their stains date back to the Pleistocene.

“You’re not going to wear those!” my wife will exclaim. “You look like a homeless guy who lost a fight with a weedwhacker!”

“At least I’ll be warm,” I’ll reply, “And I still need to get my $19.99 worth of use out of them.”