It’s summer time, which means that very soon I will die of hypothermia in my own home. You see, my wife subscribes to the Arctic Fox School of Comfort: the colder the better, and if you can see your breath that’s a bonus. Oh sure, the thermostat at the house always reads 73 degrees, but I’m convinced my bride paid off the HVAC guy because that’s what she wants me to think, kind of like when you buy an iPhone and the temperature on the weather app is always 71 and sunny, because you’re a moron and still looking at the cardboard photograph.
But I know the truth: I know that our house is always set at 22 below zero. Maybe the sides of beef hanging from the living room curtain rods are a clue, or maybe the penguins that keep showing up wearing scarves should tip me off, but I’m convinced it’s cold in that joint.
The worst room is our bedroom. It’s on the side of the house that the AC unit is on, which probably means that the little air molecules are saying, “I refuse to stay in this duct work ONE MORE MINUTE. I’m getting off at the first exit…who’s with me?” When I make a run into the bedroom, I suit up in full parka, scarf, and portable propane heater. I tie a rope to my ankle and strap bells to my waist, reminiscent of Jewish high priests, so just in case the bells stop tinkling or the rope starts forming ice crystals, Merriem can pull me out before I freeze and stick to the carpet.
Believe me, I’ve asked to turn the air down just a little bit. (Or turn it up. Honestly, I can’t keep up with which one means “warmer.”) But for frostbite’s sake, I need it warmer.
Merriem’s response? She just piles on blankets. I’ll see her sitting on the other side of the couch, a tiny lump under a cotton field’s worth of quilted warmth. And I want to ask the question, “Why not just turn it up (or down)? Then the blankets stay folded, I stay defrosted, and it’s a win win!”
But whatever her response, I can’t hear her under all that fabric. And so, I plug in the meat saw and hack off some ribs. Maybe I can warm up over the grill.