She’s Hot, Hot, Hot


Please understand, it’s not that I don’t love my husband. It’s just that he simply does not understand what a hot flash truly is. I mean, I understand that being awakened in the dead of night by someone “kung-fu” kicking  your bed sheets and blanket to the South Pole can be a frightening experience. But, if he could just imagine how it would feel to have a blow torch suddenly ignited inside of him, and no fire hose to put it out, he might understand the panicked flinging of the bed covers and my sarcastic quips to his objections. One night, I awoke to find him completely exposed and curled up into a fetal position.

I gave him a nudge and asked, “If you are cold, why don’t you pull the covers over you?”

I heard a small groan.

“Because” he answered in a feeble, weary voice, “you keep ripping them off of me. I give up.”

I don’t know why, but his answer came unexpected. How many times had I actually deprived him of his protective coverings to warrant such a pitiful retreat? I was fully aware that I had sent the covers flying, only to sit up in bed and retrieve them five minutes later. In fact, in an effort to remain positive about my condition, I had decided to view this constant night time motion as a part of my exercise plan. Apparently though, I had not been effectively retrieving enough of the covers for both of us.

Seeing him curled up in a tight ball, shivering in the night, caused me to take pity on the poor guy. I crawled down to the bottom of the bed to reach the other half of the sheet and tossed it his direction. As it unfolded like a white parachute and settled over him, he quietly thanked me.

“Your welcome,” I replied, “But you may want to bolt that down.”


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