Memories Are Warmer Than Flannel

Getting up in the morning is my least favorite thing to do. Disgruntled and cursing the fates, I roll out of a warm featherbed and prepare to meet the unknown, leaving behind the familiar debris of my nocturnal security; a laptop, some half-read books and a warm spot.

It’s the warm spot I miss most of all because it takes such a long time to make one. You know the process: start small, all scrunched up in a tight, energy-efficient ball, tentatively push out one foot, not too far, then snatch it back before it has a chance to telegraph the cold to the rest of the body.

Fifteen minutes later your back is stiff and your legs ache, but you won’t give in to the cold sheets. That’s when you decide to extend the legs and thrash them about in an effort to up the BTUs and do a bit of radiating. Thrash - pause - thrash - test - still cold. Repeat procedure until either the flannel sheets are friction warmed or the body overheats from five minutes of sustained thrashing.

When I was a kid I had warm spots mapped out all over the house. A furnace vent beside my chair at the kitchen table, an afghan on the couch, even a portion of the dining room floor just above the furnace where I cut paper dolls and built entire cities with Lincoln Logs and building blocks.

Those were the days when second floors and unused bedrooms were seldom heated. “Open your register,” my mother would advise before I went upstairs to play. Of course, by the time it was warmed up I was tired of playing restaurant on my toy stove and serving imaginary meals at the little round table and chairs.

Bathing took even more careful planning. Undress over the register, leap into the hot tub and submerge. Throw a hot washcloth over the face and don’t risk reaching out for the soap. Too drafty. Just stay underwater and wallow in the warm. Only when my liquid cocoon began to cool could I be coaxed out and into the giant towel my father would have waiting for me after he’d warmed it over the furnace vent.

Years later on frosty evenings I remember my son and his father going through the same routine. “Come dry me, Daddy,” was the signal for old Dad to put down the evening paper and head for the bathroom with the towel that had been warming in front of the fire. Memories like that stick forever.

I also recall spending a lot of time trying to figure out a way to warm my clothes and dress for school without having to leave my bed. Once I thought I had hit on a solution by taking my dress, socks and underwear to bed with me the night before. If I could dress under the covers, I decided, there would be no break in the heat chain.

Unfortunately, my mother blew that idea at the breakfast table the next morning. “Your dress looks like it’s been slept in,” she chided. On … I thought to myself … not in. “Go up and change,” she ordered, “you can’t go to school looking like that.”

“But they’re warm,” I argued, “and closet stuff is all cold.” She just didn’t understand my plan. I can remember muttering to myself as I climbed the stairs, “When I grow up I’m never going to get out of bed.”

And here I am, all grown up (more or less) and still whining. Of course, I’ve given up trying to sleep in my clothes, but now and then the thought crosses my mind: Wouldn’t it be great if I could just stay in bed all day?

But then reality sets in. When I was 10 that was a tempting idea. At 60 it’s pretty damned scary.

xxxx