I’m one of those few people who are overly warm. It doesn’t matter if it’s the dead of winter; I seldom step outside wearing anything heavier than a sweatshirt or hoodie. I’ve been known to even walk out on the porch or the sidewalk in bare feet to feed the dog. Honestly, it doesn’t bother me. Now I won’t go as far as walking around barefooted in the snow and ice, but I don’t bat an eye at a few minutes out on a freezing porch or sidewalk.
Now let me give you a li’l background info on the hubby. He’s a welder, so he works in extremely high temperatures and in close proximity to metal that has to be heated until it glows red. I get it that he feels cold when he’s been standing next to a piece of cast iron all day that registers 400 degrees. After 8 to 10 hours of that and then stepping out into 85 degree weather, I’m sure he feels cold in comparison. Not only that, he has poor circulation.
However, we had temps this summer in the 100s, going as high as 107 with the heat index pushing it a li'l higher. That man would come home, sit at his usual place in the kitchen to watch TV, and then turn the heater on behind him.
Oh, no you didn’t!
“Who the hell turned off my heater?”
“I did. It’s 107 out and you come in and turn on the heater.”
“My back hurts and the heat helps it,” he growls.
“I don’t care if you’re the Hunchback of Notre Dame! It’s 107 degrees out. Read my lips! One-Oh-sev-en!”
He complains we don’t spend as much time together as he wants, but I can’t handle the heat of the kitchen where he spends most of his time when he’s home. I already have a built-in furnace. The last thing I want is to sweat while watching TV. And when a meal is cooked, especially if the oven is in use, the temperature climbs.
It got down to 41 one night last week. The hubby was wrapped in the comforter as if he was sleeping on the snowy tundra. Sweating, I kicked the covers off. He got up for work, and when I got up I was wandering around the house in undies and a t-shirt while he and the dau were bundled up in long-sleeved shirts and sweatshirts.
And when I do want some of the comforter at night, it’s a fight to the death. That man can snap a blanket off of me and rolled up in it like yanking a tablecloth off a table, leaving everything else to stand undisturbed.
And all day he’s home the heater gets a workout. On. Off. On. Off. On. Off.
I open the door to get air. He shuts it.
I open the window to get air. He shuts it.
Finally, I usually yell something like, “Damn it, if you’re that freaking cold go put on more clothes.”
“If you’re that hot,” he counters, “take off some clothes.”
“I’m already in a t-shirt and panties,” I’ll snap.
He will then grin at me. “I know.”
“Ass wipe,” I’ll shoot back and stomp to the bedroom where it’s cooler.
Even my hands exude heat. The dau will come up to me and ask me to hold her hands for a minute to warm them up. She says mine feel like oven mitts just out of the dryer. And the hubby gets cold at night and crowds me because I’m emitting so much body heat he thinks I’m better than an electric blanket. Some nights he crowds me so badly I get up and go to the couch. Honey, I love you but get the hell off of me so I can at least breathe! Add his body heat to mine, which is already too high, and I feel like I’m in a sauna.
Oh, and let’s not forget the mini war where the hubs unplugs my laptop or my wireless cord so he can plug in his heater.
Will he plug it in the power strip? Nooooo! He has to have the wall outlet.
One day...one day he’ll get that heater stuffed where the sun doesn’t shine. Once I plug it in, he won’t have to worry about being cold anymore.