The Column: Think naked cooking might heat up your life? Think again.

The world is grim and gray. Evening still arrives too early. Baseball season? Only a rumor.

Is it me, or does winter drag more than before?

Maybe this comes with retirement. The sighing, the faint shiver, the long-distance stare, the cosmic wonderment. Days long, life short. Yes, indeed.

Oh, brother.

Snap out of it, already, before the family plots an intervention.

Let’s psych up. Get with the program. Find something to put the old zip back into your bones.

Forget exercise class and continuing education. Nuts to quilting and contra dancing.

Want to banish the winter blues? How about cooking naked?

Wait. Do not stop reading or flee to the funnies. Show some spunk and — hey, who knows? — maybe, much, much more. Onward, friends. Courage.

Young and old, people are steaming clams and sautéing baby asparagus without the bothersome restraint of clothing.

Newspapers are running stories about naked cooking, and Bon Appétit magazine offered advice in case the meal involves a barbecue. (“Be careful around the ‘weenie roast,’” was a pertinent quote.)

There, of course, are books, including, “Cooking in the Nude” (subtitle: “Quickies”), and, online several, um, stirring videos. Mostly, they feature young women wearing only aprons. Yes, I peeked. Such are the rigors of journalism and the noble fight against fake news.

It is true that the cooks under consideration are of the nudist persuasion — hearty souls, many our age, who also are apt to take nature hikes, croon karaoke tunes or practice yoga without the usual attire, indeed, without any attire, at all.

But, okayOK, what about the old-fashioned and inhibited among us who wear pajamas to bed and overalls when gardening? Are we denying our inner exhibitionist?

What about it? Let’s be all we can be.

Say you’re rustling up dinner — sweating over a hot stove — and decide, phew, I’m going to shed the fleece-lined hoodie and get down to just my thermals and old Superman teeT-shirt. Well, then, braveheart, keep going.

Peel off those quilted cargo pants, woolly socks and sneakers that could not pass state inspection. Now comes the crucial part — the moment where you will reveal, if not the content of your character, the throw weight of your thighs.

Yes, I am talking about the boxer shorts — worn and frayed but so comforting and familiar. Seize the moment. Step out of that underwear and into a new world of lightness and liberation. There! The natural state. You’ve arrived. Congratulations.

Thus unmoored from convention, you are free to continue meal preparation. Caution, though. Looks like the bacon is starting to sizzle. Step back. Oops, too late. Ouch. And — darn — ouch, again.

Spatter aside, sound like fun? Rejuvenating? A way to vanquish the cold weather blues?

Just to shake up the heirs apparent and keep them alert to our continued existence, perhaps naked cooking should be seriously considered.

Imagine the offspring — all middle-age — arrive for a birthday party and there you are frosting the cake wearing nothing more than a 12-inch chef’s hat.

Or, maybe it’s Thanksgiving. None of the children yet has offered to move the meal to their house. You are still doing the whole deal, soup to nuts. OK, then step back as Dad, without a stitch — but with an inspired wiggle — bastes the turkey and samples the sweet potatoes.

“This is serious,” a daughter may declare.

“Mom said he was a little off lately but … wow,” a son may reply. “Somebody find his bathrobe — and hurry.”

To tell the truth, chances are remote I will strip down before braiding my next onion loaf or mixing up a gallon of secret secret-formula sangria.

Though about the right weight now, I was a chubby kid. Parents thought a plump child was a healthy child in the 1940s and, boy, did I have a dutiful mother and father. In Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, we ate Ebinger’s chocolate layer cake as if it rated top spot on the food pyramid. Calories? Who was counting?

When I needed slacks or a new suit, Mom took me to the “stocky” section of Robert Hall Clothes on 34th Street, Manhattan.

Once, a salesman tried to measure my waist.

I backed off.

“Touchy,” said the salesman.

“Shy,” said my mother. “Sensitive.”

Body conscious, I remain, and intend to survive these end-of-winter weeks fully flanneled. Those more adventurous, right on. Undress and cook up a storm. Have a ball. I’m thinking, though — probably best not to invite the kids.