CityView Magazine

8 October 2023 of being able to distinguish the sound of the "up" button on the thermostat from the "down," even from another room. "I heard that!" he will say, the second that my frostbitten fingertip clicks the control panel. He will rouse from a deep sleep the moment I can take the hypothermia no longer, tiptoe out of bed, and turn our ceiling fan from hi to lo. I swear he can feel a 1-degree shi in his bones. He is sympathetic enough to get up and fetch me a second blanket, but the fan will remain at full blast. e thermostat will be fixed under 70 degrees as soon as his head hits the pillow. is is where the king of the compromise draws the line. While I do occasionally chatter my teeth in his ear or rub my frigid feet on his toasty toes for pity, I have learned to adapt to my environment, quite like the cold-blooded chameleons to which I am convinced I am related. My nightclothes are akin to what one might wear under their snowsuit and boots on a Matterhorn expedition. I have learned to layer with thermal leggings, a T-shirt, and a long-sleeved shirt in the warmer months, with the addition of a hooded sweatshirt or fleece pullover when it's cold out. I top my bedtime look off with a pair of thick fuzzy socks (my feet will still be cold). My husband will take one look at me and say I need to get my circulation checked. While he's probably right, I'll reply that it's all his fault that I don't own any skimpy silk nightgowns. I'll crawl under my sheet, pull my down comforter to my chin, tighten the strings on my hoodie, top myself with my weighted blanket, curl up into the fetal position on the edge of my side of our king bed (because, apparently, the heat that escapes my always-icy body is immediately absorbed by my husband if we are any less than 4 feet apart) and I'll let him ponder that a while as he lies next to the spousal equivalent of Ralphie's bundled-up little brother from "A Christmas Story." FAMILY MATTERS Thermostat wars BY CL AIRE MULLEN natured person, plain and simple; that's all there is to it. He always has been and always will be, he will say. And he suggests that while I can always add another layer or a thicker pair of socks, he can get only so "unlayered" in a house with two small children. And I have to give it to him; he's right. My husband is not one to complain or really require a whole lot in the way of personal luxuries, but, Lord, do not ask the man to attempt to rest his head in a room that does not have a ceiling fan capable of a turbo speed setting, sheets that weigh anything more than a single hummingbird feather, or an HVAC system that cannot maintain a 60-something degree temperature year round. He has been known to make out- of-the-way treks on vacation to purchase a bedside fan for a rental house. To call down to the front desk at midnight to request a fan be brought up aer hours of tossing and turning in a hotel room. To be found in the morning absent from the guest bed and sleeping on the living room couch directly under the most powerful ceiling fan in the home of friends we were visiting. He also has the incredible sixth sense T here is nothing — and I mean nothing — that has caused more contention, more strife, more sheer bitterness in my marriage than our 15-year-long quest to find an agreed-upon solution to our very different ideal sleep environments. We're talking an Arctic tundra vs. Sahara Desert situation, and I am shivering just thinking about it. I really think that my husband's propensity for sleeping in what feels to me like a torturous subzero freezer of a room dates back to his childhood when he realized that if he slept on top of his neatly made comforter with only a thin, easily foldable blanket for cover, he could avoid the required daily chore of making his bed. And to this day, that is how my now 40-year-old husband prefers to sleep. It is my theory that his body was conditioned over many years to need very little in the way of nighttime warmth and comfort. I like to remind him that I was a good little girl who made her bed and should not be subjected as an adult to nightly cryogenics at the hands of someone with a habit that was born out of juvenile laziness. My husband will argue that he is just a hot- My husband has the incredible sixth sense of being able to distinguish the sound of the "up" button on the thermostat from the "down," even from another room.

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