Surviving the Long Cold Summer

I haven’t written in awhile, and it’s not because I’ve run out of ideas. It’s because typing is difficult when you’re wearing mittens.

I dress this way every summer. At least I have since my husband, Steve, decided we needed central air conditioning. Now I take drastic measures to stay warm. To avoid hypothermia, I pile on clothes like an Eskimo. I pray for hot flashes. For extra insulation, I even stop shaving my legs.

From the moment we got married, Steve and I had “temperature wars.” On our wedding night, Steve kicked the covers off the bed; I pulled them up to my chin. Driving to the airport for our honeymoon, I flipped on the heat; he turned it off. We’re not unusual. I surveyed some friends to see if other couples have the same problem. Yep, it’s a hot topic (pun intended).

Why is it that men and women can’t agree on a temperature that's comfortable? If you read a lot of books, you know the answer: men are from Mars, women are from Venus. Even if you haven’t read the classic text by John Gray, you’ve probably heard about his book on relationships between the sexes. The author’s premise: men and women are so different, it’s like they’re from different planets.

Bingo!

Think about it. What’s the temperature on Mars? Freezing is an understatement. Mars, where Steve (and all men) come from, is farther from the Sun than Earth. That means its average temperature is minus 81 degrees Fahrenheit. Most men find a climate like that quite comfortable – without wearing so much as a sweatshirt.

On the other hand, as a woman, my home planet is the relatively steamy Venus. Location, location, location, they say in real estate. Venus is the second planet from the Sun, making it warm and toasty. I’m sure that’s why we gals chose it in the first place. It has an average temperature of up to 900 degrees Fahrenheit. Now that’s cozy!

Before we had air conditioning, summers were miserable for both Steve and me. Steve was miserable, because he was hot. And I was miserable, because Steve was hot. He didn’t want me doing anything that would add heat to the house. This included a ban on most appliances. It was annoying to hang laundry to dry on a clothesline in the back yard. It was a hassle to do the cleaning without using a vacuum. And after awhile it was impossible to come up with appetizing meals I could cook outside on our Coleman Stove.

Besides, eventually we both got sick of living in a wind tunnel. Each summer Steve would try to cool things down by dragging our motley assortment of fans in from the garage. He'd arrange them strategically around the house, making it so breezy you could fly a kite whenever you wanted, even if you didn’t feel like going outside.

“All you’re doing is blowing around a bunch of hot air,” I pointed out.

I was pushing him over the edge, and I knew it. He’d call Home Depot, and soon we'd have air conditioning. I’d be able to boil water…use my curling iron...read a book without using a flashlight. I was psyched.

That’s before I found out his scheme to create an environment perfect for someone named “Frosty.” The installer's truck had barely backed out of the driveway before the temperature in our house began to plummet. Steve grinned. “This is great!” he said. At least that’s what I think he said. It was hard to hear him over the chattering of my teeth.

Since then summers have been a challenge: I try to keep the home fires burning, but the cold frequently snuffs them out. I can’t thaw hamburger unless I stick it outside on the porch. And even though I can use my blow dryer, it doesn’t matter – unless I happen to venture outside, I spend most of my time in a stocking cap.

Now fall's on the way. It’s getting cooler outside, which means it’s getting warmer inside. I’ve switched from mittens to gloves, and I can finally start typing again.

Best of all, soon it will be time to shave my legs.