Sven drives me crazy every year with his insistence that the house be warm in the winter. Really. I don't understand it. Why, if you are comfortable at 72 degrees in the summer, must you have the house at 74 or 75 degrees in the winter? Why isn't 72 still comfortable? THIS MAKES NO SENSE TO ME AT ALL. Still, it is a truth: in the summer, we have the thermostat set to 72 or 73 at night, and we are fine. In the winter (which in Texas can last as long as 7 non-consecutive weeks) the thermostat can go no lower than 74.
74 is inhumane. It is miserable. I cannot exist at 74 degrees indoors. Outdoors, okay. I'll give you that, 74 is pretty comfortable when you're outside. Indoors, I become a sweating, grumpy, belabored musk ox at 74.
For the first several years of our marriage, I got my way sometimes. Sven would pile on the blankets and sleep in the "chill" but insist that I turn on the heat before he got out of bed. Now, he has the perfect excuse to keep the house at interrogation-tactic level:
It's for the children. The children can't be cold. The children kick off their covers.
Sure. The children. I knew he'd get me with that someday.
I miss the days Sven and I were in college. We lived in a dilapidated house his grandfather built in the 1500's or something, which had no central air or heat. Since we were in Beaumont, Texas, we weren't as concerned about heat, so we installed window unit air conditioners.
Then came the coldest winter in Beaumont history. And old, hardwood floors. And a barely-insulated house on a pier-and-beam foundation, which made the floors so cold you could feel the wind blowing up through your toes as you ran.
Those were the days.
Come to think of it, that's probably why Sven likes such a hot house in the winter. Even though we have a nice house now, with carpet and everything, he likes knowing that he can be toasty warm anytime he wants.
I guess he's earned it.