They say that opposites attract. Nowhere will you find this adage proven more clearly than in my house. I am a short, fun-loving chatterbox who loves dogs reading. And my husband is a reptile. Okay, so he’s not scaly, and the closest he’s come to laying an egg was when he found out how much it was going to cost to fix the foundation. But his failure in the mammal department comes from his complete and utter inability to produceor retain his own body heat.
He’s a runner. I am not. He puts in 5 or 6 miles daily, and as a result has the body-fat of a 9 year old gymnast. Lacking that layer of insulation, he’s always cold. Always. I, however, do not have that problem. As a non-runner and conscientious objector to strenuous exercise in general, I have a very nice layer of insulation. Thank you very much, it is a custom design! Yes, it is nice and cozy. And that’s the trouble. The man is always trying to take advantage of the fact that I am an endotherm. What? That’s not dirty. Google it.
I am warm-natured. I can’t sleep if I’m too hot, and I get over-heated easily. Having the metabolism of a hummingbird, my husband’s skin temperature is around 900 degrees. Except for his feet. Those register somewhere just above freezing. And though on the surface he feels warm enough to melt metal, he is all shivery. And seeking warmth. In other words, me. I wake to find him snuggled so close to me that I can’t breathe. It doesn’t matter if I scoot over. He finds me. There are times when he has chased me so far over that it’s easier for me to get out of bed and go over to his side.
Summer-time is worse. Even though I am very warm-natured, I do require at least one layer of covers when I sleep. As everyone knows, the body parts that are hanging out from under covers can and will be consumed by monsters. So safety first. In the summer, I simply turn on the ceiling fan to compensate for the extra warmth. Husband fails to comprehend the necessity of both fan and covers. So he turns off the fan. That’s right. Just gets out of bed and turns it off. He likes to live life on the edge, that one. I may have to smother him in his frost-bitten sleep. And no jury would convict me. No jury consisting of well-insulated, pre-menopausal women, that is. Hot trumps cold. Every time. EVERY TIME. If you’re cold, PUT ON SOME SOCKS!
Winter time is a bit easier since someone bought us the human equivalent of an under-cage heater. That’s right. We’ve got an electric mattress cover. It’s pretty sweet, even for me. I don’t like the shock of cold sheets. All we need to do is turn on the electric cover a little while before bed, and it gets all cozy and warm. And here’s the best part. That magic invention has dual controls! So I can turn my side off. And he can crank it up. The only trouble is that the cords inevitably get tangled in storage, and it takes us a couple of weeks each winter to figure out exactly which controller operates which side. I never said we were smart people.
I’m still waiting for the magic invention that helps us to survive the summer. I’m afraid that if it’s this difficult now, when I do hit menopause, we’ll be safer sleeping in separate states.