His phone alarm is kind of a swelling Zen tune accompanied by the sound of running water, and while I am thankfully still in complete control of all bodily functions, the water running did tip me over the edge and force me to address the morningly call of nature. I slide back into my warm side of the bed.
HH flings his arm over his eyes. “Why? Why do I have to get up?”
“It’s morning, babe,” I say.
Just then, the rooster sets off his own morning alarm. Once he starts, there is no point in delaying the inevitable.
HH groans. “But it’s freezing downstairs. It’s like the Klondike, baby.”
“It’s not,” I say. “I was just thinking how warm it was… I left all the boost heaters on for you last night, so it’s nice and toasty.”
“I don’t believe you,” says my 180-pound baby. “That bathroom is a meat locker.”
“No, hon, it’s really not that bad.”
He slides into a sitting position and shivers into his slippers.
“It’s at least 25 down there, babe. You won’t freeze. I promise.” (25 C is about 77 F)
He snorts. “Baby, your 25 is everone else’s zero.”
He might well have a point, being as I am 49 and… well, you know how that goes! I am a veritable walking toaster oven.
“Just wear your robe, babe. You’ll be fine.”
“I don’t want to wear my robe,” he says, stumbling to the door and fumbling around under the hoodies and flannel shirts in search of it. “Aaaaa!” he cries in that sort of voice reserved for falling in the mud, burning oneself on a hot stove or spilling spaghetti down the front of one’s white shirt, “All I can find is this… FLUFFY thing!”
That “FLUFFY” thing is my decidedly unsexy bathrobe, a confection of pink lightweight velour designed to keep a girl warm without the any male assistance. If birth control devices were made of fabric, they would take the precise shape of my bathrobe. (Which, frankly, is one of its best features.) I roll my eyes at his histrionics, because I’m that kind of wife. “That’s MY robe, silly… yours is on the back of the study door.”
He sulks his way onto the landing and embarks on the impressively long journey of two steps into the study. I hear him pull it off its peg, accompanied by a man-flu groan. “It’s prob’ly full of spiders,” he says.
I can’t help but laugh at that, since he may well be right. Our cottage is 250 years old, and spiders kind of come with the territory. Something about beamed ceilings and ancient light fittings seems to attract them. “Go take your shower, babe,” I say, snuggling down into my pillow to snatch another quarter hour of shut-eye before I need to be up.
“Easy for you to say,” he grouses, padding down the stairs, “you’re not the one who has to go to work with spiders hiding in your chest wig… just waiting to jump out at the most inopportune moment…”
I laugh into my pillow and listen to the rooster crow, thanking God both for HH and my own lack of chest wig.
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