It’s mid-April. In my part of the world, the trees are starting to bloom, sweaters and tights are ready to be stored away, and all the men in my neighborhood have taken vacation time to dedicate themselves 24/7 to fighting the battle of the weeds. Snow shovels have been exchanged for lawn movers, which will buzz perpetually until those are swapped for leaf blowers. It’s the suburban circle of life.
While most Southerners agree the weather is inarguably better, in our house my husband and I vehemently disagree on what constitutes a comfortable temperature. I’m Miss Heat Miser and he’s Mister Ten Below. While most partners kiss each other as they leave for work, one of us is just as likely to shout a warning about touching the thermometer before we head out the door. I’m surprised he hasn’t installed a tripwire around the unit, sirens blaring MC Hammer’s “Can’t Touch This” if I get too close.
I've been thinking lately about our wedding vows. David and I are approaching our 5th anniversary, and a lot of those promises have already come in handy. Take "in sickness and in health.” 2020 sure put that to the test.
When it comes to "for richer or for poorer," let me just say we stuck together during a three-year money pit of a renovation, half of which we had no kitchen. Yet there is the pernicious issue that continues to divide us as a couple, and I'm wondering why our marriage vows didn't address it. We should have had to pledge our troth to “I’m burning up in here and I’m freezing to death do us part.”
After working together from home for a year, I realize David wants the temperature somewhere between the morgue and a meat locker all the time. As a result, I’ve been known to take my laptop out to the car, crank up the heat, and max out my seat warmers. It’s possible I may have received a third-degree burn once or twice. Totally worth it.
Inside the house, I’m a master of layers and hot liquids. I invent reasons to cook just so I can stand near the hot stove. After I bake, I open the oven door, hold out my shirt and let the rising heat get to second base.
Heat is expensive; I get it. It’s one of those super adult things you have to spend money on which is no fun at all, like tires. And David is cheap – he would say frugal or thrifty – still, he’s not the one spending his entire workday on the tundra.
I live in a constant state of SWEETHEART I CAN’T F-F-FEEL MY F-F-FINGERS P-P-PLEASE LET ME HAVE M-M-MORE HEAT. Truth be told, I’m never hot, or even warm for that matter, and he knows it. But how many coats can one person wear?
People say that the most important part of any relationship is trust, but I think it's compromise, so that’s what David and I did. He installed a gas fireplace and turns it on for me every morning before I get up, and at night, I allow him to turn down the thermostat to 68º before bedtime.
And he knows that if he sets it too low, there is absolutely no way he’s getting me out of my clothes. He can’t touch this.
Recipe adapted from Half Baked Harvest's Coq Au Vin Chicken Meatballs
