The Frosty Awakening

My bedroom has become a frozen wasteland since I went to sleep the night before. The sheets next to me are still warm with the residual heat my husband left behind. I scoot over to steal it, briefly exposing my hand to snooze the alarm clock, which blares a rock radio station that is mostly static. My digits darts back under the sheets, already half frozen.

By the time the snooze goes off for a third time, my husband is already out of the shower, getting ready for the day. Seeing the steam escaping from the bathroom, I gather my courage and make the daring dash from the warm bed across the frozen tundra of our bedroom. Before the steam is able to turn into frost, I quickly shut the door, strip, and hop into the shower, yelping and skipping in a circle until the sorcery we call the water heater kicks in two seconds later. But my daily dancing ritual does little to appease the metal wizard that resides in our basement, for I can never get the water as hot as I want.

My husband pops his head in the bathroom to ask for a kiss before he leaves for work in five minutes. My response is to scream at him that he’s letting all the heat escape the bathroom. He frost nips my lips and quickly shuts the door, but the damage is done and I’m doomed to dressing my cold, wet body in arctic temperatures.

When I finally emerge, dressed in five layers and ready to face the world, my husband shouts goodbye as he opens the door to the garage. He tells me he loves me and I run away from the frosty garage air, screeching what should be ‘I love you’ in return, but sounds more like ‘AGGGHHHH! IT’S FREEZING!’

It’s only when I hear his car start and back out of the driveway, that I sneak to the plastic box on the wall, and carefully hit the up arrow twice. The change is nearly immediate – a rapid melt. And finally the temperature is bearable and the ice age is gone. Once again I provide tribute in the form of whoops, hops, and jiggles, thankful that the central heat demigod seems to like me more than the metal wizard downstairs.

Sixty-eight degrees instead of seventy.

And my husband thought I wouldn’t notice