It’s a well known fact that Latshaws tend to run hot.
(“Well known” is achieved when at least five people are aware of a fact, correct? Which means that with you, dear reader, that makes SIX. So let me start over.)
It is a wildly famous fact that Latshaws tend to run hot. I am not sure why this is, but it may be connected to our inability to sweat as profusely as I see so many of my colleagues do. The heat also tends to amass in our feet, leaving one with a case of feet that are so hot, that even sleep becomes difficult. I’ve been known to have to pour cold water on them in the middle of the night. It’s hard, guys. Life is tough and, man, my character is getting, like, so refined through these trials, so yay (I guess).
And as God seems to be bent on refining my character within an inch of its life, he has seen fit to pair me with someone who runs cold. I don’t think TJ’s feet have ever been hot. We will be in the very same room and in the very same bed and under the very same blanket (don’t worry, I am keeping this PG), even, and he will be in a full sweatsuit–complete with an old-man-elbow-patched-cardigan over it all–and he is shivering. Meanwhile, I am laying in my underwear, you guessed it: so hot.
It used to be that I could play the ultimate trump card because I was growing a human inside me. Man, those were the days. I never ever had to wear pants that didn’t have an elastic waistband. And at every doctor’s appointment, I was treated like I was carrying the heir to the thrown of England. They’d even give me snacks! And never once acted like gaining ten pounds in two weeks was abnormal. It was awesome. And every night at home, I’d crank the AC up while the room temperature see-sawed way down–all while compassionately offering TJ yet another cardigan.
But then I had that baby and could no longer use her as an excuse to always get what I want.*
*See above about life being hard and my character getting refined over and over and over again (hallelujah).
My husband does not just tend to be cold, he also speaks for a living and is convinced that the air conditioning “dries out his vocal chords.” There are not enough cardigan sweaters in the world to help with this problem, guys. Turtleneck sweaters, maybe–but he has none of those. So, now he has requested no air conditioning, but rather the natural air that flows around us.
Basically, I am camping.
And even though it is December, the benevolence of mother nature–or *cough* global warming–has seen fit for it to be unseasonably warm here in New England. And man, it’s hot inside. We have these huge windows that are facing whatever part of the world is directly in the sun all day long, intent on baking the people inside. If I were a bug, this would be an obituary. The night helps a little, but remember, Latshaws run hot, and by birth right, we tend to need more than just “a little” to cool down.
But here’s my saving grace: a tiny fan right by my face that I turn on every night. I bought it in lower Manhattan because it was the way I like my lipstick, bright red and cheap, and there was a heat wave and my apartment was organic. Yes, organic. That’s how they sell you on apartments with no door on your bedroom and no AC once you walk through the dooor that isn’t there.
I was happy when I bought this tiny fan, though, because I was on my way to see this guy I had recently met who intrigued me more than I was willing to admit to anyone, least of all my mom, who wondered who it was that was calling her daughter. His name was Frank. Haha just kidding, it’s a way better story if I tell you his name was TJ, right? Don’t worry–that’s the story. I bought this tiny fan on my way to meet TJ for a date, never knowing that someday it’d be my one source of cooling comfort in an apartment that is filled with so very much to live for–some heat, sure–but the man and the baby and the dog and the unending amounts of character building more than make up for the hot feet, I promise.
And this is what I am thinking about right before I turn on my little red fan and go to sleep.