Admittedly I am a cold wimp. Being a Southern California native made me that way. My coldness threshold pales in comparison to those in the mid west regions and northwest. Here in Southern California, we are on “Storm Watch” the second a speck of moisture hits our busy streets. Folks here batten down the hatches and stay inside until the next batch of sunshine, after the first sprinkle.
I have however, been known to chuckle while watching headline news in February. While some are shoveling snow and scraping windshields, I am shimmying into my shorts and fiddling for my flip flops. I know, I know, it’s a dry cold. Since my idea of a winter coat is a long sleeved t-shirt, chances are I would chip into a bazillion frozen pieces if ever I were to step foot in a Minnesota winter wonderland. Currently it is 80 degrees here although it is not the dead of winter.
Due to my wimpiness factor, I become quite anxious around this time to ditch the crispy cold cotton sheets for those delightfully warm, soft flannels. Ever since my first slither under the covers of a bed clothed in flannel I have become addicted.
Sliding my legs back and forth very quickly in a scissor motion after I climb into bed can produce enough friction to take away the shock from cold sheets but in my world, the flannels world stay on year round. A good crank up of the air conditioning, reinforced with a couple of oscillating fans would combat the uncomfortable warmth in mid August although the rest of the members of my family would be in need of fuzzy footy pajamas in order to endure the evening chill. I could make that happen. I’m a giver.
Just the thought of snuggling in flannels for 365 days makes the corners of my mouth curve upwards. On the other hand, my husband would drown in a pool of sweat if he were subjected to flannels 24/7. I wouldn't want him to drown. Perhaps my husband would consider, if we were moved to Nome, Alaska. Do they have Starbucks in Nome?