The Battle for the Covers

Husband and I are two, different body temperatures. I’m always cold. He’s a furnace. I, at least, warm up in the summer.  But, husband stays a regular level of hotness that doesn’t give up even in extreme conditions.

For instance, when we went to Germany one December to visit my sister and her family, who live just outside of Munich, he was not cold once. If you have ever been to Germany, you know they practically invented cold. Russia may be known for cold, but at least they wear those furry hats and such giving us a clue that they know the temperature is frigid. In Germany, I suspect genetic alterations have been made. I wonder about this because after dinner every night, it was a ritual to open the door to air out the room. Even in the dead of winter. How I would love to learn to be “not cold!” But, I digress. . .

Husband’s temperature reaches an all-time high in the middle of the night. I don’t quite understand this phenomenon, except it comes in very handy during cold winter nights. I just snuggle up and instant warmth. That is, until he pushes me away with a sleepy – you’re so hot – comment. (And, no, he’s not saying that because of my looks.)

As soon as the temperature rises to above 50 degrees, he puts on the air conditioning. So, it does not matter if it is winter or summer. Our place is always a cool 60 to 65 degrees. (In the summer, sometimes I’m forced to go outside and stand in the backyard to warm up.)

Night times offer regular blankie coverage, however, from the dry, frigid air Husband likes to live in. So, all this temperature control he’s got going on would be No Big Deal (at night anyway), except for one thing. The ensuing late-night battle for the covers.

Husband regularly just throws his allotment of blankie on his side over to my side. I don’t mind. It means I’m just a little bit toastier. Except, some time in the middle of the night, he wants them back. (Indian giver.) Then, he wonders in the morning why the covers are all “messed up.” Half the bed spread is on the floor, the sheet has magically turned diagonally and the middle blanket – well, that could end up in any configuration.

Sometimes he fights me for some corner of fabric. Half asleep, I feel this tug. It’s my clue to unclutch whatever set of covers I’m clinging to and relinquish the perfectly warmed wraps. Sometimes, I fight back. After all, he gave them to me. Why should I give them back when an hour later they are just going to be thrown back over to my side, now seriously threatening to slip off the bed entirely leaving us both exposed?

The worst part is he swears the tangle of bed sheets and blankets in the morning is all due to me.  His logic is clear — material, like a rope, cannot be pushed forward (or in the case of the rope, upward). So, obviously I must be stealing them under cover of darkness. I remind him that he practically throws them at me in the night, and then when he wants them back, I cannot be expected to get up and rearrange them snuggly around him. He holds firm to his logic. (I, on the other hand, will continue to hold firm to my covers. One cannot grow complacent when one’s comfort is concerned.)

I tell him that when I was single the bedcovers barely moved. In fact, in the morning, you could see my body imprint in the bed and just smooth the covers back over. Voila! Instant bed make-up. Husband swears when he slept alone it was the same for him.

So, what’s a girl to do? Install cameras?