It happens each year at this very time: the thermostat war.
Not so very long ago, the sun would have been blazing. We would have been tramping around in sandals and T-shirts, guzzling lemonade by the gallon. We would have been living on the sundeck, the kitchen long forgotten.
In a nano-second, the picture would change. Shorts, out. Sweatpants, in. Goodbye to lemonade, hello to cocoa.
Sayonara, sundeck.
“It’s freezing,” I will say to the husband. “We need to turn the heat on.”
“What?” he will say. “No need to crank up the furnace yet! Let’s put sweaters on instead!”
We have arrived at — what shall we call it? — the seasonal cusp. Translated, that means that I am feeling autumn’s chill, and the husband is in denial.
This, I must say, is not necessarily because the husband is so tight with the bank account that he can’t bear to start paying heating bills. He just can’t stand the transition.
“It’s still September,” he will say. “We can eat dinner outside.”
“Are you kidding?” I will say. “We would need to be hunkered down in sleeping bags. Besides, it’ll be dark before dessert.”
The husband, dear summer-loving fellow that he is, wants to stretch out the season for as long as he possibly can.
No so, me.
“Heat’s going on,” I said a few days ago. I was wearing a sweatshirt. And sweatpants. And heavy-duty thermal socks.
The husband was in bare feet. And rolled-up slacks. And a short-sleeved shirt.
“You look like you’re going to the beach,” I said. “Don’t forget your sunscreen.”
“Silly,” he said. “I’m not going to the beach. It’s raining.”
I was inclined to tell him that rain isn’t generally the only thing that deters people from going to the beach at this time of year. A single-digit temperature also enters into the equation.
“You’re making me shiver just looking at you,” I said. “Put on a hoodie, for crying out loud.”
The furnace suddenly rumbled to life, and began to blast a little heat our way. It hadn’t been turned on in months.
“I don’t need a hoodie,” said the husband, plopping down on the end of the chesterfield.
Of course he didn’t, that much was clear. He’d lost the thermostat war.
