The Great Thermostat War: A Tale of Hot Flashes and Frostbite

Marriage is about love, compromise, and, apparently, waging all-out war over the thermostat.

For years, The Huz and I lived in perfect(ish) harmony, mostly agreeing on things like where to eat and how to fold towels (his method is wrong, but I let it slide). Then, perimenopause hit. And with it, an unrelenting inferno of hot flashes that turned our home into a battlefield.

The Climate Crisis at Home

Let me set the scene: It’s February. Outside, it’s a crisp 10 degrees, snow is gently falling, and inside, I am melting like a candle in a microwave. My body has decided that I am a human furnace, and I am radiating heat like the sun. So naturally, I do what any overheated, slightly unhinged woman would do—I set the thermostat to a reasonable 65 degrees.

Enter my husband, shivering like a Dickensian orphan.

“Why is the thermostat set at 65 degrees in February?!” he exclaims, rubbing his hands together for warmth, probably contemplating layering a third sweatshirt over his already fleece-lined existence.

Without missing a beat, I turn to him, eyes wild, sweat glistening on my brow, and declare:
“Touch that dial and you can heat your ass in Hell!”

A Marriage Built on Compromise (But Not This Time)

Now, in any normal marital disagreement, we would find a middle ground. But there is no middle ground when one person is living inside the core of the Earth while the other is actively developing frostbite.

We have tried:
✔️ Blankets (he’s wrapped up like a burrito while I lay sprawled out like a starfish).
✔️ Heated socks (for him—while my bare feet enjoy the icy bliss of the fan blowing next to me).
✔️ A space heater (which he positions near his side of the bed while glaring at me like I’m his personal Arctic tormentor).

Nothing is working. My only recourse is to maintain my dominion over the thermostat, defending it like a dragon hoarding gold.

Creative Solutions (That Mostly Favor Me)

My husband, desperate, has suggested a separate climate-controlled bedroom—basically a marital igloo just for him. I suggested that instead, he embrace his inner Viking and toughen up. He was not amused.

We are now at an impasse. The thermostat remains at 65. He remains layered like he’s about to summit Everest. And I remain victorious… for now.

The Moral of the Story

Marriage is about love, laughter, and respecting each other’s needs. But also, and perhaps more importantly, it’s about not touching the damn thermostat.

Stay warm (unless you’re me, in which case, stay chilled to perfection).