Tom got me an electric blanket for Christmas.
I can’t figure out why my skin isn’t made of the same material as this blanket.
It’s the perfect gift, the sort of gift that helps me know Tom really knows me. I’m always cold, and I can’t stand being cold. I’m the kind of person who has an overwhelming urge to curl up inside the fireplace anytime the temperature dips below 50. I don’t really understand Global Warming because I stop listening when I hear it doesn’t mean I’ll be attending pool parties on Christmas Eve. Here in Richmond we have pretty mild winters, so mild that everyone else gets really excited the few times it snows. I can’t relate to those people, not at all.
The only teeny tiny exception about this being the perfect gift is that electric blankets are only sort of ok if you’re pregnant. So instead of throwing it over my head and passing out from heat exhaustion, I only put it on my legs.
But if you need me in mid-May, I’ll be on the couch with a glass of wine in my hand, eating real sushi with ibuprofen chasers. And I will be completely snuggled under my electric blanket, which will be turned up to high. And when Tom looks at me and rolls his eyes, I’ll respond, “No, dear, I’m not doing this because I’m cold. I’m doing this BECAUSE I CAN.”