Unless it’s 70+ degrees, I’m cold.
Cold is an understatement, really. I’m frigid. I’m frozen to the core when everyone else might feel “a little chilly.”
I get so cold that my nose becomes bright red. Like, so red that people feel the need to comment on it all the time.
Jerk 1: Woah, what’s wrong with your face?
Jerk 2: Hey, Rudolph!
Jerk 3: Are you sick? Your nose is BRIGHT RED.
Me (Jerk 4): I’m abnormally cold, okay? Back off, you sweaty beast.
In case you were wondering, I believe Hell to be somewhat like a camping trip to Arctic Tundra and realizing a little too late that you forgot socks.
Cory insists that we keep our house at a
bone-chilling reasonable 64 degrees. No matter how loudly my teeth chatter, or how often I grunt I’M SO FUCKING COLD, Cory’s response stays the same: Go put on some more clothes.
And put on more clothes I do. A t-shirt, long sleeved shirt, hoodie, leggings, pants, two pairs of socks, and slippers. (For once, I’m not dramatically exaggerating.)
When I watch TV, I bury myself with blankets and pillows, and I become annoyed when I have to pee, forced to leave my cocoon.
The only enjoyable thing about cooking is feeling the gust of heat when I open the oven.
And don’t get me started on getting out of the shower. Mis-er-a-ble.
But last night, things started looking up. Cory surprised me with a gift greater than diamonds or pearls.
These are the best things about walking into Costco. I’m that girl who stands in front of these space heaters with her face thisclose to the cage oohing and ahhing about this is what Heaven must feel like.
If I do that in public, you can imagine how I acted in the comfort of my own home.
No blankets or socks?! It’s practically summer here at our place!