My best friend, Kasey, lives where it is very, very cold. So cold that when I asked her on the phone the other day what the weather was like there, she answered, casually, oh, it's 2.
And that's pretty warm for there. I check her weather every morning along side my own (as if I need to verify for myself daily that someone I hold dear was crazy enough to leave the state of North Carolina for the frozen wilds of Northern Maine) and it's not unusual to see -13.
A couple of years ago, I sent her a down-filled robe for Christmas. Her husband asked her why I felt the need to ship her that monstrosity and she said, "Meg thinks I'm cold." And I'm like, Kase, I don't think you're cold, I know it for a fucking fact. Because that is just not fit for human life. If you stayed outside too long, you would die.
And that's just not ok to me. Much like the temperature of my house right now.
Last night at 1:30 am, Thomas woke me to tell me that there was something grievously wrong with the heating system and he was going to have to turn it off. I sat there, totally unable to comprehend this for a moment. I said, "Um, you know it's 22 out there, right?" And drat his responsible self, he pointed out that it is better to be cold than to burn the house down. I just don't need to hear that kind of logic at 1:30 am.
So, now it is 30 something outside and 52 in my house and I think my hands are seriously going to fall off.
What I wouldn't give for that down-filled robe right now.