Stranger Than Most
There’s something magical about the number 70 in my husband’s mind. As in 70 degrees. In the spring when the outside temperature hits 70, he starts up his whining about how it’s too hot in the house. Of course he’s wearing jeans, socks and a long sleeve shirt. When I suggest he dress more appropriately for the weather, I get the long rant I’ve come to know as “I Shouldn’t Have to (Blank) In My Own House!”
Likewise when the temperature hits 70 in the fall, he begins to whine about it being too cold in the house. And he’s wearing a T-shirt and boxer shorts. When I tell him to put on some clothes, the rant starts up. I’ve long stopped listening to it. I just wait until he runs out of steam and then give him the deep, meaningful sigh I perfected raising my two boys.
I have no patience with all this. I grew up in a place where it REALLY got cold, not this wimpy 40s and 50s with the occasional overnight freeze. I have a fluffy robe and fur-lined slippers. I even have a knit cap, gloves and socks that are designated solely to wear in bed. Because though Mr. Whiny wants it 85 in the house during the winter, he still wants it 65 in the bedroom when we sleep.
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