Monday, December 6, 2010
During the summer, my mother keeps my house at an insane temperature of seventy-six degrees.
Now, before I get to where I'm going with this, I would like to take the time to say that the air circulation to my room is not the best. During the winter, it's easily two or three degrees colder than the rest of the house. During the summer, it's definitely three or four degrees warmer than everything else. So when I say seventy-six, I really mean seventy-eight or nine. Now, this past summer, the air conditioner for the lower half of my house broke. You see, I live on the upper half, but hot air rises. It goes up the stairs and into my room.
Especially this season, my family has been getting sick and I've been quarantining myself in my room, with the door closed. To have my room be at least slightly similar to the temperature of the rest of the house, the door has to be open. Do you see my moral dilemma?
Back to your original broadcast.
During the winter, my mother keeps my house at sixty-six.
That, my friends, is a more-than ten degree difference between summer and winter. I cannot adapt to this. At all. I've been trying and trying and my whole life, I have failed. I have been piling blankets on top of my comforter and hugging scalding hot water bottles.
I don't think I have the best circulation in the world. My nose is always frozen in the winter. Whenever I type, my fingers freeze (usually it's not to the keyboard). And even with the fuzziest socks, my toes are stull numb.
My solution to my warmth issue? Whine and complain at my mother in hope that the movement will warm me up, because I know she will not move the temperature from that hideous spot. I also suppose that I could go downstairs, where my grandmother is amazing and likes temperatures over seventy. But there's no computer to blog on.