I don’t like heat under most any circumstance, beyond basking on a tropical beach or within feet of any pool of water. I mean I really do not like heat. I’ve been known to cancel social plans based on the heat index, or even the venue. I overheat at the drop of a hat. Va-klempt. The Vapors. Whatever you want to call it. Breathe too heavily around me, and I’ll find the humidity factor rising. A slight dampness will form at the base of my neck. My normally straight-ish hair, will start to ever-so-slightly curl. I have sworn to the Gods, that I will move to Iceland when menopause and the nasty hot flashes hit if it’s as bad as I’ve been told.
That being said — lately I have been freezing. Crazy, huh? I know, common sense would say – “Hey, it’s winter! It’s cold outside!”. But a). it’s Southern California winter which is mild compared to most, and b). it’s me. The one who never gets cold? The one who sleeps with a fan on, year-round?
Usually when I feel this way, I flip on the switch to the fireplace, and VOILA, give me 2-3 minutes and my core temp is back up and all is right with the world. But lately? Lately I’ve actually needed to turn on the …. wait for it …. Turn on the HEATER.
“That’s crazy talk!”, gasp those who know me well. “Why I’ve lost a toe or two at her house from frostbite and her stubborn refusal to turn on that damn heater!”, say others. And that’s not far from the truth. In the four years since I’ve lived here I think I’ve turned the heater on 4 times. Like an annual run. This season? Easily a half dozen times.
See it starts where I think I am cold. I assume I need warmth. I turn on the heater, and no sooner does it kick in, then I am rushing to turn it back OFF. “I can’t breathe!”, I croak out in muffled tones to my daughter. Unfortunately, because of being raised by yours truly, she suffocates even quicker than I do when that blast of heat comes on, so all she can do is look at me with big pleading eyes, mouthing something I don’t understand or cannot hear. Fortunately thus far, I am always able to make it to the thermostat in time to switch it to off. I suspect it’s mere moments before we shrivel up and turn to dust.
So the correlation here?
This is exactly how my dating life has gone for the past year. I think “I’m lonely/bored/restless” (instead of “I’m cold”), which leads to “I think I’ll turn on a dating profile” (instead of the heater). No sooner is it on than I am thinking “I can’t breathe! Turn it off, turn it off!”. My internal romance thermometer is as cracked as my internal temperature.
Fortunately I’ve discovered there is this very fine thin line that every once in a while I am able to find. It’s when the humidity is low, but not so low that my hair is static-filled, or my hands elicits electricity on a doorknob. It’s warmish, but never that suffocating heat. It’s a tad over 69 degrees, but never quite 70. I don’t feel it often, but when I do it’s Nirvana.
I figure if it can happen with the temperature, it can probably happen with my love life too.