Sunday, October 9, 2011

Heat, Cold, and the Benefits of a Fast Metabolism

My baby brother used to try to weezle his way into not sleeping alone by telling his (much) older sisters that he could keep us warm.

“Hannie, I’m a hotbox. If you let me sleep with you I will keep you warm”.

Truth be told... he was a hotbox. Whenever we found the kindness in our hearts to let him spend the night in our beds (aka whenever he looked cute enough), it was time to crank up the fans, open the windows, and enjoy the night chill on our faces because of our three foot personal heater lodged up against us, keeping us plenty warm. He was also a sprawler.

That being said...

My husband is a Hotbox.

In more ways than one.

But I won’t bore you with my attraction levels for him. I’m sure you all have your own Hotbox to daydream about.

I have issues with staying warm once I get warm. My feet are generally in a constant icicle state and my finger tips are often tipped with a Narnian freeze. It seems that in the morning, after waving goodbye to my Beloved as he drives away to work, I am immediately cold.


I go up into the house, and everything I do is suddenly cold. I don hat, long sleeved shirt, puffy vest, sweats, so cks, bar all the windows... and I am still cold. I’ve even snuggled with my flea-bitten black puppy for warmth.

A hot drink does nothing but keep my lips warm. Moving around and cleaning does nothing but get the house clean. Taking a hot shower only emphasizes that I was once extremely cold, and that I will be extremely cold again once Iget out. I simply cannot get warm.

I stop. I pause. I wonder.

I look at the pattern. Husband home = warmth. Husband gone = cold. I think I’m onto something here.

We are never far from each other when he is home. The farthest we are away is when I am washing the dinner dishes and he is relaxing on the couch reading the paper. I finish the dishes and plop down next to him and try to find something interesting in the paper to read. I generally revert to talking his ear off and scratching his head. During this time, I am warm. Do you know why I am warm?

Because my husband is a Hotbox.

We both like to be surrounded by cold when we are sleeping. We leave the window open to let the Tennessee autumn air come through, turn on the ceiling fan, and crank up the plug-in fan all at the same time. I love the breeze. But... In the dead of the night... when I wake up four times because my baby is sitting on top of my bladder or practicing martial arts inside of my gut... part of me is cold.

Not the part facing my husband. That part is burning up with the 100 degree heat of his warm man-skin. But the other part, facing toward the edge of the bed, toward the wall... which is usually my butt. It gets cold. Frigidly cold.

My nightly ritual involves turning over about a dozen times during the sleeping hours to warm both sides of my body up against my Hotbox, who, while sleeping, defines the term “dead asleep”. My legs and my belly get cold... I simply turn and throw the leg over the human heater and put my face in his shoulder until I’m almost suffocating. My butt gets cold so I turn over and... well you get the point.

My Hotbox always feels sorry for me when he discovers how cold I am. He has ideas in his head about how to arrange the furniture in our bedroom so as to maximize warmth for whatever side of me isn’t magnetizing heat from his body. He clucks his tongue like a mother (or should I say daddy?...) hen and says to cuddle up to him as much as I like. It’s nice having sympathy... especially from a six footer with sleepy blue eyes and long, tan arms that can wrap far, far around you even when you’re almost seven months pregnant. I kinda have a weakness for him.

On his twenty-second birthday, which was the first of October, my Man got up at four something to go hunting for the first time this season. He said he’d be back by eight-thirty... which he was... but I got so cold, I had to revert to jumping around like a maniac to keep warm. It eventually turned into a workout, and I killed two birds with one stone. But boy oh boy... when I heard the obnoxiously loud rumble of his truck coming up the driveway, and saw his tall self all dolled up in camo climb out of the front seat... was I h-a-p-p-y to see him. My lips were no longer purple and my skin took on a normal hue.

Sigh... my Hotbox was home.

1 comment:

  1. having a hotbox is the most wonderful thing everrr! :) loved reading this, Hannah!