Times I Froze to Death
A heavily dramatic & unnecessary account of being too cold.
Very nearly freezing to death seems to be my frequent state of discontent. Needless to say, I love blankets (and hoodies, mittens and wool socks — all on at the same time).
Yesterday I laughed at a meme shared by my mom,
“when I’m an old lady I’m going to leave little bags of snacks on the floor all over the house in case I fall down.”
I agree with this proactive planning but I’d leave blankets. In fact, they’re already there, in every room of the house except the kitchen — but about twenty dish towels will do in an emergency.
“It’s 70 degrees in here, Richard.” My husband thinks that telling me the temp will somehow change the chill I feel and I’d not need to be huddled in my chair like a burrito while he’s lying on the couch with a pair of thin shorts for a covering.
Hot flashes are indeed right around the corner for me and I know I will shout to the heavens while force feeding my face into a fan, but until then, give me goddang warmth.
I’ve got a portable heater going round the clock in my office. Sometimes I shut the door for extra smothering — usually only to shut out the noise from the other offices, but it can get drafty too.
