It’s been freezing. At least at night. The heater in our house is set to a chilly 65 fire-up, ever since I had a tantrum and staged a one-woman war against PG&E. Outside there was even hail. That is frozen rain. (Shut up all you non-Californians who have actually experienced snow/sleet/freezing rain.)
And also my feet were freezing; therefore it was cold.
I huddled in the fetal position, trying to embrace every heat-retaining thread that comprised my flannel pajamas. My hip started to ache a bit. But I couldn’t move. Two millimeters to the left would broach the artic zone. I didn’t have enough body heat left to rewarm it.
My body was contorted into an awkward post a yogi would be proud of. Because I didn’t want to chance the ice cubes that had once been my feet touching any other part of my person (even through the flannel).
I began fantasizing about socks. No, you know what? I’d be content with socks AND slippers, in bed, right now. But obtaining these socks would require moving. And as of present, the laundry pile has the best of me. So additional time would need to be spent in the death zone (open air) ferreting about through the baskets looking for a match.
(Yes, the socks would still have to match. It’s a texture thing.)
As I slipped in and out of consciousness (clearly from hypothermia and not the end of a long day), I endured hallucinations of a large fuzzy blanket atop the covers. Perhaps an extra comforter to cover to large fuzzy blanket as well.
Finally I braved the elements – darting over to the closet for a pair of red slipper socks. I grabbed a blanket from the spare closet and wrapped it around myself before doubling the fabled warm fuzzy blanket over my side of the bed.
I fell into a blissfully happy (and toasty) slumber.
Jon claims the room was 72 degrees, but this is a lie because the heater was on.
His second debate point was that I may have a mental problem. I will not dispute this. Especially not from under my cozy covers.