My wife and I have had an ongoing fight all winter. Don’t worry, this fight won’t involve the police or restraining orders or anyone throwing anything. Well, that is unless I throw some of my belongings on a fire in the middle of the living room.

We’re fighting over control of the thermostat.
I would have an upper hand in this battle if I hadn’t lost my hands to frostbite. I don’t want to say Maria likes to keep the house cold, but I rode a bobsled down the steps the other day. I had a tough time dodging all the meat hanging in the hallway. (Thanks, I’ll be here all week.)

I don’t know why I have this problem. I spent four years of college just about a half-hour south of Erie. I don’t mind the cold outside. I don’t walk around in shorts when it’s below freezing like my friend Bryce used to, but as long as the wind isn’t too bad, I can handle winter.

Inside, it’s a different story. My fraternity used to have a curious arrangement where most everyone slept in bunk beds in a common room called the sleeping room. They led to the fire escape and had no heat.

When I first moved into the fraternity house, the sleeping rooms didn’t have carpet, so we would stay in bed as long as possible. My friend Scott would often dip his toe onto the wood floor to see if it was safe to get out of bed. He would usually need a few attempts before wrapping himself in a blanket and making a run for the warm part of the house.

Sometimes, I feel like I have returned to those days since I live with a woman who personifies the old adage “cold hands, warm heart.” We have an older house so we have to deal with the cold every winter. We got new windows a few years ago and that helped get rid of the drafts, but the lack of insulation makes wearing layers necessary.

I can handle that. As much as I would like to emulate my favorite “Calvin and Hobbes” cartoon and walk around in my shorts after cranking up the thermostat, I hold off.

Now we just have to come to a resolution on where to set the thermostat. She has her favorite temperature and I have mine. We might as well have a yo-yo to set the temperature.

Since I get up pretty early during the week, I set it at a comfortable level. Comfortable for me, that is. After I leave for work, Maria drops the setting several degrees because my comfortable is her balmy.

And it goes on and on.

Of course we could get one of those fancy programmable thermostats, but that would be too easy. What would we have to talk about if we didn’t complain about the temperature in the living room?

The temperature is actually only part of the problem. Maria chalks up her position to her thriftiness. She just can’t bear the thought of a high heating bill, even if I’m the one who writes that check. I keep telling her to spend my money, but she says she’s just can’t do it.

But what about me? I can’t spend the rest of the winter holed up in the computer room wearing three layers and hugging the space heater.

I’ll just have to turn up the heat the next time Maria gets distracted. I just hope that bobsled comes by soon to pick me up.