My family is trying to kill me. For sure, the woman and the big boy are. The jury is still out on the little boy; he may not be part of their conspiracy. He might have his own game plan, in which I end up only bruised. I haven’t uncovered the full web of alliances yet.
We didn’t have a blazing hot summer, which may be the only reason I’m still alive. Otherwise, their plan to boil me in my own northern blood might have succeeded.
My wife and my eldest son get cold very easily. Mention November and they start shivering. They dress for a sleigh ride when we go to the grocery store. If I need a break from domestic life, I stand in the frozen foods aisle. Nobody can touch me there. It’s just me and the fish sticks in quiet contemplation.
I’m not a hot weather person. My sun screen bottle says SPF 5×1014. At 78˚F, I sweat from the head like Frosty the Snowman when he got locked in the greenhouse by that magician dude. The Washington Redskins could completely diffuse their whole name controversy if they would only replace their logo with one of me sitting by the pool.
I suspect that my younger son is more like me, but he is still too young and inarticulate to help me. I always get outnumbered, two to one, with the little boy holding his own counsel or voting in a foreign language.
My death by spontaneous combustion/melting will occur in one of two places. In the car, my wife is always surreptitiously turning off the A/C. She thinks I won’t notice the cabin temperature spike to 110. Rather than fight over the controls, I usually roll down my window. This will not necessarily make me comfortable, but it may keep me alive for up to three minutes. Three minutes is as long as the boy in the back can be expected to refrain from kicking a wounded man with “Daddy, can you roll up your window? I’m cold.”
Every return from a car trip is a victory, but then I’ve still got to make it through the night. One Christmas, I bought my wife a heated mattress cover. I thought it would ease her January chills. I never imagined she’d use it in July. She only turns on her half of the bed, but my side is still connected. I should be happy. It’s rare that someone shows that much appreciation for a gift. I’m sure she’ll mention in the eulogy that I was always a thoughtful gift-giver.
My only potential ally in this war of temperatures is the little boy. I think he finds it in his interests to save me. He likes to throw stuff. His velocity is good but his accuracy is suspect. To help his confidence, he needs a big target. Without me, he’d frustrate himself aiming for one of the smaller people moving around the house.