War has been declared in my household. This happens once or twice a year. As soon as the thermostat hits about 80, my husband goes from being a fairly rational human being to a tyrannical despot with one singular purpose: to turn our charming little abode into his version of the arctic tundra.
Have you ever seen Father of the Bride 2? There is a “hysterical” scene somewhere in the middle where both of the expectant mothers are wearing as little as possible and the guys are walking around in parkas and gloves as the women complain the air-conditioning isn’t cold enough. Yeah, that’s life in my house. Only I’m poor ol’ George Banks.
I should mention here that I am habitually cold. Always have been. During the school year, when I walk into my classroom, after I put my purse away and fire up my computer, the first thing I do is put on my hoodie. It doesn’t matter that when I stepped out of my car it was 92 degrees at 8 in the morning. It doesn’t matter that I’m wearing a lovely sundress and heels. My oversized gray hoodie gets thrown on and zipped up, because I know that I will shiver if it doesn’t. When I was 9 months pregnant and apparently should have been sweating buckets, I was in long sleeves, pants and my maternity hoodie. A hoodie is really my accessory of choice. It goes with me to the movies, restaurants, the mall. Wherever I go, so goes my hoodie.
So, it drives me absolutely nuts that almost like clock-work, every July, when the temperatures start creeping up, my thermostat keeps getting turned down. I have tried to be good and compromise. I have agreed to 72 degrees. If I still get cold (and I often do), I grab a hoodie. At night, I sleep in long pants, long sleeves and under a sheet and comforter, usually with socks on. I’m fine with it. But every time my back is turned, my husband drops that thermostat down to 69 or 70 degrees.
He rails that he shouldn’t have to sweat in his own house and while I do agree, he usually says this while wearing jeans, a t-shirt and a button down shirt over it (after coming home from work). When I point out that he can feel free to peel off a layer or two, he counters by telling me I can bundle up more. I usually resort to playing the “kid card.” We have two young children and I try to remind him that even if I wrap them like mummies to keep them from shivering in his own personal Iceland, they will no doubt kick their covers off and then be helpless against the elements.
Unfortunately, much like my husband, my son seems to also provide enough heat to maintain life on a small planetoid, so that excuse was wearing thin, at least until my daughter was born. All I have to show is one tiny exposed limb that was even slightly cold to the touch and he tends to cave (she has got him wrapped around his finger). I’m hoping that she will also prove to be an ice bug like me and need lots of hoodies. Maybe together we can combine to stop the blitzkrieg of cold rolling through my house.
If we can make it through July and August, it should actually be pleasant in this house…well, at least until December rolls in.