As I Lay Freezing

Wheeee doggies! Last night, it was colder than Val's heart when a habitual latecomer pleads with her not to count this last tardy, as it will send him to the school pokey to ruminate on the error of his ways. Or, as the thermometer in my Tahoe showed at 11:00 a.m., forty-two degrees.

I awoke at 4:50, even though this was Saturday. That's thanks to Hick, who left the official alarm set per normal workday, because Genius needed to arise at 6:00 to head to the city to take his SAT. Hick sees that as being perfectly sensible. The hitting of the snooze button for one hour and ten minutes. I, myself, do not.

The bedroom was icy. Like one of those ice hotels, but without the vodka. I got up to throw a load of late-night-washed clothes into the dryer. The dryer which is on the other side of the bedroom headboard wall. An act which I see as perfectly sensible. But Hick, himself, does not.

"Wooo! It's cold in here!"

"It's sixty-nine degrees. Maybe it's time you turn on the heat."

"Why didn't you turn it on when you got up?"

"I don't know how to work this new thermostat. That's what you're for."

"Here. Warm me up."

"I have been standing on the tile floor of the laundry room. You are the one who has been here under the quilt."

"But I need warming up."

"I need more sleep."

"You're warm."

"You're mistaken."

"All right. I'll go turn up the heat."

You see, I am not a cuddler. Not a snuggler. Sleeping is sleeping. Not being entwined by your spouse like a world-record-length boa constrictor is bent on squeezing the life out of you before dining. Were I a contestant on Survivor, I would spend the entire thirty-nine days without a wink of sleep, rather than try to capitalize on the body heat of others by snoozing in a pile like a litter of newborn puppies. Lucy and Ricky, Rob and Laura had the right idea with their twin beds. A good night's rest is essential to the purveyance of comedy. Is it not enough that I must find creative ways to block the gale-force wind from Hick's breather in order to catch some ZZZZs without the breath being sucked from my lungs by Bernoulli's Principle?

I have already compromised with Hick on the quilt issue. My fluffy comforter, purchased from an insurance salvage store with my employee discount many years ago, is much more effective at holding in body heat. Grandma's quilt, hand-stitched with love, given as a wedding gift, is sorely lacking in BTU retention.

Hick left the bed to attend to his husbandly duties. You'd think he was Dennis Quaid beginning his trek to rescue his son, Jake Gyllenhaal, after sudden global cooling in The Day After Tomorrow.

My hero. Hick turned on the heat. And set the thermostat to seventy-one. Funny how much difference two degrees can make.