Randy the perfekt husband calls me a “delicate flower”. Sounds like a sweet, heartfelt endearment doesn’t it? It’s not. It’s a reference to the fact that my comfort temperature lies within the narrow range of somewhere between 74 and 78 degrees. Above that and I find it “unholy hot”. Below that and my core temperature drops to levels usually associated with frostbite and the proverbial witch’s tit.
The biggest telltale sign of this shift in my comfort level: my feet turn into BLOCKS OF ICE! My hands, too. But it’s my feet that are one of the hot-button (or in this case cold-button) issues in our marriage.
I’d like to blame this phenomenon on the post-partum metabolic forces of the universe. You know, the ones that gave me the BIGGER FEET and BIGGER BUTT post-bambina. But truth be told, I’ve always had this problem. And a lot of women have it too. Regardless of age and history of pregnancies. You know who you are! Your husbands do too.
For me, the problem’s just gotten worse AK (after kid). And it happens fast. I go from short, silky come -hither if I only had the energy nighties to full-on figure unflattering flannels in the blink of an eye! Hence the not-so-endearing endearment “delicate flower”.
Indeed I will admit that I am very sensitive to my environment. I notice the oh-so subtle shift in light as summer turns to fall. I notice how sound carries differently at different times of the year, depending on the warmth of the air or the time of day. I notice the change in the sun’s life-giving rays even before the sycamores that line our street drop their first leaf. And while some more “mature” folks feel this seasonal shift in their bones… I feel it in my friggin’ feet! And even a hot shower before bed fails to bring up my core temperature.
So I rely on the flannels. And that 20 pound throw I bought because it was 50% off plus I had a 20% off coupon. But most importantly, I rely on that little spot between my husband’s calves. You ladies know the spot. Your guy has one too.
When Randy and I settle down for the night, I take my feet and I BURROW them DEEP, DEEP into that spot, in search of the body heat I so desperately lack. It’s usually met with a YELP! of shock like you get when you jump naked into a cold lake or your kid flushes while you’re in the shower. It’s followed by the LOW GROWL that rumbles through the darkness, beneath the breath-stifling 20 pound throw:
“Trim your %#@*!# toenails, why don’t you?!”.
Ah, marriage. For better, for worse. For richer, for poorer. For hotter, for colder. For…EVER. Sorry, Randy. But socks just make me feel so claustrophobic… I’m happy to get you a bandage though!