The Temperature Wars

It was the type of July morning that made an individual grateful for air conditioning in their car, which is every July morning in Maryland. Proceeding down the road, though, I felt something was amiss. Despite the air conditioning being on full blast, I was starting to sweat profusely in the back and waist area. The heat and the humidity, along with the tucked in shirt, was making my commute to work feel more like a trek in a South American jungle while wearing Gore-Tex.

Feeling the air flowing out of the vents with my hand, I was relieved to find that it was indeed cold – cold enough that my waist shouldn’t be feeling like a ring of fire. Perhaps I was experiencing a hot flash, but I was only 39 years old and not a female. That wasn’t it, as my face was cool and dry.

Baffled, I glanced down at the console in the vehicle while I was stopped at a red light. I was shocked to discover that my seat warmer was on level 5. For comparison’s sake, level 5 is the hottest temperature ever recorded on the Planet Mercury.

I shut off the sweat-generating button immediately, but not before the heat had created a pond of my own sweat, with my boxer shorts becoming board shorts. My shirt already wet with perspiration. How could this happen?

Suddenly, it dawned on me that my wife had used my car the evening before. I shook my head before pulling over into a grocery store parking lot. I then propped my body into a yoga-like position that allowed me to place my rear end right in front of the double air vent. Surely, this maneuver offended the older lady and her grandkids as they walked by, but desperate times called for desperate measures. It took several moments crouched in the football center position before I finally felt sweet relief.

So it goes, living a life of being chronically warm with a wife who isn’t. If she had a superpower, it would be an inability to feel humidity. I envy her for this, of course, but oftentimes our house feels more like a Vietnamese Jungle than a suburb of Washington, D.C.

At night, as we settle into bed, she wraps herself inside the blanket so tightly that she resembles a burrito. She can’t even hear me say good night. Next to her, I lie still, splayed out in a snow angel position, with only shorts on. If there were such a thing as an IV of arctic air, I would obtain a prescription for it.

There are several scientific explanations for this gender temperature discrepancy. For starters, men are generally taller and heat rises, thus making us much hotter than our shorter, female counterparts.

Another possibility is the Y chromosome. It’s a widely known fact that the Y chromosome is responsible for generating machismo. Since machismo is a Spanish term and it’s hotter in places where people speak Spanish, well, it becomes a rather obvious explanation.

It’s also entirely possible that every man springs from hell itself. Under this theory, we were brought to this planet only to propagate the species in some Sisyphean-like perpetual punishment. In this scenario, we are basically prisoners to females. I’m not willing to go there just yet; however, it is odd that the women seem to control the temperature of our homes.

There needs to be a mutual understanding in order to fix this egregious error in our society. When cold, a person can always add more clothing. When hot, a person can only take off so much clothing before they are arrested for indecent exposure. Based on this, it seems clear to me that the females should be a little more flexible and understanding of the challenges that we men face. We offer so many benefits to women – such as reaching the top shelf, having cool facial hair, and making weird sounds with even weirder body parts – that it just seems like the right thing for girls to do.

In the meantime, men, it is imperative to continue fighting the good fight. Check those seat warmers and never – and I mean never – let a woman hear you say, “I’m cold.” Man up and put on some long underwear.