Father’s Day, 2015, mid-afternoon; kids are gone, I’m finishing up the last talking-head news show on the DVR, and Maggie drops down in the oversized chair across from the sofa where I recline.
“Are you cool enough yet?” she asks.
I look at her as if she has three eyes. I sweat if I blink my eyes. The central air is running on high, the ceiling fans are whirring away, and the single window unit in the boy’s room next to me is humping out BTUs at 70-degrees Fahrenheit. I’m in shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt, haven’t moved an inch for fear of generating a calorie of mechanical heat, and she’s wrapped in her terrycloth mom robe and pulling on a pair of my white calf-high athletic socks.
“I wanted to dress nice for you on Father’s Day but I’m freezing. Can we turn the air condition off?”
“Off? It’s June. Its 88-degrees outside. Humidity is 55% and you’re cold.”
“Not cold. Freezing.”
“Maybe you should break out the winter coats.”
I don’t get women. At night, in bed, she’s cold, then hot, then cold. We still have the electric blanket on the bed and she uses her side of it, on high, until she kicks it onto me. I can’t keep up. Neither can Murphy. He gave up sleeping in the bed until after she gets up in the morning. Then he climbs in with me. Great. He weighs more than she does. Takes up more room too.
Am I the only one?
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