One Cold Woman

From time to time my wife can be a cold, cold woman.  Especially in bed.  Now, I’m not saying that she’s an ice queen or anything, but she does like to sit on a throne and tell ice what to do.

Before you get too excited, know that I’m not speaking figuratively here about emotional “availability” or even sexual “availability.”  Instead, I’m being quite literal.  See, while I’ve never actually had a leg amputated by a butcher’s knife, I’m guessing the sensation is similar to my wife turning off the light, crawling into bed, and sliding her frozen foot onto my lower leg.  The experience begins with an instant and alarming rush of pain, followed by a complete loss of sensation and movement below the area of contact.

I want to say that most nights my wife is so cold so as to be dead, but that would be unfair to the recently dead.  It’s probably more fair to say that sleeping with my wife is like sleeping with the cryogenically-frozen Ted Williams, whose chamber has a little valve on the side to let his left leg out on occasion.

I’m not sure how this kind of thing is even possible.  After all, before we go to bed my wife and I usually hang out in the same room for several hours.  The temperature in our house is carefully regulated, and my wife has parents who swear that she is, indeed, from this planet.  So what’s going on here?  Is there some secret that only women know?  Are they keeping cans of freon stashed away in their bathrooms as some sort of sophisticated man repellent? 

In any case, I know what I’m getting that woman for Christmas this year: Electric slippers.  And if nobody makes those, I’ll make some myself.