Psssst…over here…under the fuzzy yellow blanket. You may wonder where I’ve been these past weeks, noticed an absence of iPod confessions about sunshiny songs and lists of the signs of spring and other nonsense about warm things. That’s because I’ve been here, huddled under this blanket, waiting for warmth to arrive in my life once again, either in the form of spring or a repaired heater. You see, my heater went kaput two weeks ago, and the HVAC guy with the lowest rates, the one who warned me last fall I needed a whole new unit, he hasn’t been by to visit yet, probably because he told me so and I didn’t listen.
And the thing is, I HATE BEING COLD.
But you’re from North Dakota, you challenge, like my geographical origins somehow make me a cold-blooded creature that enjoys napping in icy ponds. The truth is I spent the majority of my formative years in a hot bath. This because my mother insisted on turning the heat down to 60 each night. We lived in a glass-front A-frame on the prairie, so this meant each morning the temp inside our house hovered around 42 degrees. My mother justified this because, it being the 1980s, we all slept in heated waterbeds. Did she not realize how painful it was to hop from a steaming waterbed into the frozen tundra that was my Love’s Baby Soft-scented bathroom, wearing nothing but a rainbow-screenprinted nightshirt and fuzzy slippers with different colored toes? My only refuge was to run one of those baths that hogged all the hot water and infuriated my sister, and lounge there for an hour reading a Sweet Valley High book and letting a trail of hot water from the spout splash onto my toe while my mother screamed from below that I’d filled the tub too full again and water was dripping into the kitchen.
My heatless life of the past few weeks has sent me into survival mode. Here’s a typical day for me under the blanket:
Awake under a mound of fuzzy blankets wearing three sweatshirts and fuzzy slipper-boots and rub my numb nose back to life.
Lie there for an extra ten minutes dreading the sprint to the bathroom.
Sprint to the bathroom, remove just enough clothing to take care of business.
Bundle up again and sprint to the kitchen. Eat whatever I can lay my hands on quickly that isn’t refrigerated (miniature Snickers, an untoasted slice of bread).
Run one of those baths that hogs all the hot water and lounge there for an hour reading Entertainment Weekly, letting a trail of hot water from the spout splash onto my toe.
Lie there for an extra ten minutes dreading the thought of my naked wet body hitting the Siberian landscape that is my Philosophy-scented bathroom.
GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!! Throw on three towels and a bathrobe, wrap a towel around my head.
Bundle up in layers of sweatshirts and fuzzy pajama bottoms and my now foot-scented slipper-boots.
Sprint to the couch and burrow under my yellow fuzzy blanket.
Practice law all day from under the blanket, feigning ignorance when callers wonder about the muffled sound of my voice on the phone. Sprinkle in hot baths during work breaks and eat miniature Snickers to sustain energy.
Jump out from under the blanket long enough to do an exercise tape without removing slipper-boots.
For evening’s entertainment, watch frozen winter sports on TV through a peephole at the top of the blanket, refuse to venture out with friends because “it’s too cold tonight, are you crazy???”
Run a hot bath before bed.
GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!! Throw on three towels and a bathrobe, wrap a towel around my head.
Bundle up in layers of sweatshirts and fuzzy pajama bottoms and my now foul-scented slipper-boots.
Bury all but my nose under a mound of fuzzy blankets and fall asleep dreaming of warmer days to come.
