I may have fetus hands and ET-ishly small feet, but my little extremities can produce more cold power than a witch's tit. Let's just say that if I had been Mrs. Freeze, Batman might have been a different story.
This is a problem, kids, because I like to snuggle. Or aggressive cuddle, as Grahm likes to call it. I mean sorry the good Lord didn't see fit to gird my loins with blubber to keep me warm in the night (and really, I'm not sorry). But I need to be warm! Hence, the snuggling.
Every night is the same.
We climb into bed, and I immediately stick my coldy metatarsals into the crevices of the hus-bun's strangely warm thighs and my hands into his armpits. It's like a cave of heaven enveloping my frostbitten toe-jangles and finger-dees. (Grahm produces a lot of heat for someone with .0005% body fat.)
He pretends that he doesn't like this ritual ("Babe! Get off, get off! You're freezing!"). But I know better. Really, he's saying "Where would my thighs be without your nuggets of goodness?"
. . . One day when we're in the middle of Ice Age 2040, he'll thank me for building up his tolerance to below-negative weather.
Linking up with Helene!