Joanne Sherman: Some like it hot
Why do my husband and I go to Florida during the winter? For starters, our kids live there. It never snows in the areas we stay, and wherever you look there’s something tall and green, like a palm tree or a mojito or an alligator that’s standing on its back legs.
But if I said those were the reasons we head south at the first WLNG frost alert, I’d be lying.
The truth is that once the temperature dips below a frigid 64 degrees, we cannot co-exist in the same enclosed space without multiple clenched-jaw discussions over what’s a reasonable indoor temperature. At one time we were temperature compatible, but as we’ve gotten older, we’ve become hotter, colder and meaner. I know that’s hard to believe, because we’re never mean to other people. Only each other.
I am long past the “Is it hot or is it me?” stage of my life. Now it’s more like a constant, “Oh, my God! I’m dying. Turn down the heat!” Unfortunately I’m saying it to the shivering person beside me who is wearing flannel and fleece and complains that he’s freezing, as he turns up the heat.
It’s a puzzle, because we’re perfect together in so many ways. For instance, he shares his birthday with the Boy Scouts and I share mine with the Girl Scouts. Is that not a match made in heaven? I used to think so. We’ve never argued about money, or the kids, or politics. (Well, once about politics when he was running for public office and said to me, “At least I know I’ve got your vote,” and I told him, “Not necessarily.” Apparently election eve is not a good time to crack a joke.)
“What’s the thermostat set at?” he asks, because he’s freezing. “So, add some layers,” I suggest, ignoring the fact that he’s wearing his heavy jacket, hat and Elmer Fudd Slippers. When I’m not looking he cranks the dial until I ask, “What’s the thermostat set at, I’m burning up here!” And he suggests I take off some layers, ignoring the fact that I’m wearing shorts, a tee shirt and have a portable fan on a chain hanging around my neck.
The problem (as I see it) is that he likes to keep the house heated to four degrees above hellfire and eternal damnation, whereas I prefer something in the upper 60s, you know — the temperature recommended by every healthcare professional in the world, and also Reader’s Digest.
Things at our house got really “heated” before we retired and spent long gray Shelter Island winters fighting over control of that little dial on the wall. Getting up and out of the chair to undo what the other one just did helped us meet our daily 10,000 steps goal without ever leaving the house. And from the chair to the thermostat is 18 steps. You do the math. I know you won’t so I’ll tell you: that’s over 277 round trips, each.
It got so bad we stopped going to bed at the same time, each waiting out the other, because he/she who stays up the latest gets the final turn of the dial. If it was me, we’d wake to ice formations on the inside of the windows. When it was him, the air took on a sub-tropical rain forest density and I’d wake up after my nasal passages shut down with a dry gummy mouth that felt like it was full of kitty litter. And not the good kitty litter, either. The cheap stuff.
If he left the house I’d turn down the heat to just above see-your-breath. And when I left, he would do the same thing, but in reverse. Years ago I bowled in the Women’s Winter Bowling League, and once a week as I backed down the icy driveway to head to the Legion, he’d wave with his right hand. But I could see his left hand cranking that thermostat to the Dante’s-inferno setting. One night, when I returned after three hours and opened the door, I was hit by a furnace blast of hot air that melted two feet of snow on the porch and nearly knocked me off my feet.
“What’s that burning smell?” he asked. It was me! My eyebrows were singed off my face. Next time you see me, take a look. The outside half of the right one never did grow back.
We returned to Shelter Island in early April, but it was still cold enough for WLNG frost warnings and new rounds of fights over the thermostat. As a result, right now we are back in Florida. It wasn’t the frigid Shelter Island weather that brought us back, though. We’ve returned to celebrate our grandson’s graduation from college. (Wink wink.)
