Ever notice how even the smallest irritation can make you crazy? I’m talking about the differences we share with our significant other. Often these quirks are minor and barely worth your time . . . except when they rob you of your sleep and make you feel like screaming. Here’s where I’m going with this:
It was the middle of the night, in the midst of an Arctic blast, but I awoke wringing wet. After rolling out of bed, I plodded down the hall to check the thermostat. Eighty degrees!
“What kind of greenhouse is he turning this place into?” I muttered, referring to my other half’s chilly-itis condition. Without a second thought, I turned the temperature down to a normal setting of fifty-five, and even considered turning on the air. Lately, our internal thermostats had grown as far apart as the North Pole and the desert. I even wondered if one of those NASA space suits would help. One evening, I was feeling all warm and cozy, curled up with a new book. Glancing at my other half, I noticed he was sitting wrapped in his winter coat. I asked a dumb question. “Are you cold?”
“Vrrrrrr,” was his teeth-chattering reply.
“I’ll get the thermostat,” I said. After jacking it up one degree, I figured that would do it.
Again, I heard another, “Vrrrrr,” from my spouse.
“I’ll turn it up higher,” said I, on my way back to the thermostat.
“Lots higher,” he called after me.
“Does he want me to melt?” I groused, making a detour at our closet and slipping into a tank top and Bermuda shorts.
I’ve even toyed with the idea of running around the house like Lady Godiva. That would work, until someone unexpectedly dropped by. Like our pastor. Or my in-laws. I can see it now: “What’s going on here!” says mother-in-law, properly mortified. “Come along, Gordon, we’re leaving!”
“Not so fast, Helen. I’m kinda’ liking it here,” says Gordy with a tricky smile directed at yours truly, who has grabbed sofa cushions to cover all the right spots before fleeing from the room. Well, you get the picture.
A woman I once knew worked all day and hired Hilda, a housekeeper, to come in now and then. Over the summer, my friend noticed her electric bills had taken an odd surge. When she came home early one day, she realized the cause: Hilda was ironing a batch of shirts—while standing in front of the refrigerator with the door wide open. My kind of woman.
Do they make a little portable air conditioner, one you could sling over your shoulder like a tote bag? They should. When you felt all hot and bothered, you’d push a button and bam—you’re as cool as a wrap-around ice pack. Until then, I guess I’ll just have to adjust.
Do you suppose NASA rents out those space suits?