It's that time of year again when my boyfriend and I have this argument:
Him: It's freezing in here.
Me: I know! Isn't it wonderful!
"Couldn't we close the screen door?"
"In an hour, maybe. I want it nice and cold in here before I go to bed."
"But I'm freezing."
"You're fine! You're not freezing. A commenter at Feministe said it was -1 today in Maine. People in MAINE are freezing. You're just a little cold. Maybe if you put on--"
"I already have on 2 t-shirts and a sweatshirt. My heaviest sweatshirt."
"Oh. Maybe we should close the screen door."
Meanwhile, I'm scampering around in a light flannel shirt like it's a holiday--which, if you're me, it kind of is. I hear "overnight low of 39 degrees," and I definitely translate that to "holiday."
I can't wait 'til tomorrow. Tomorrow I'm going to turn on the oven FOR HOURS while I do us up a roast chicken.
I didn't run the oven more than a handful of times this summer. We grilled a lot. Ate a lot of pasta and salads. I did not consume a single baked potato.
"I don't understand," I chide him, "why you have to begrudge me my paltry four months of the year in which the weather is how I like it."
"I don't understand," he returns, "why you have to keep the house the same temperature as a morgue."
"You're only cold because you are a frigid Kraut bastard who does not understand that this weather is for hugging. And snuggling. And cuddling."
"I can't hug you if I'm dead."
"This weather is COZY."
"This weather is FREEZING."
He's wrong, right? Of course he's wrong.
This weather's not freezing. This weather is awesome.