The Polar Bear

I’ve finally realized how I’m going to die.

 

It’s not going to be in a plane crash or from a myocardial infarction. I don’t know what that is. I just like the way it sounds.

 

It won’t even be at the hand of a jealous husband, even though that would make for a much better story.

 

“Local Man Killed By Jealous Husband of Supermodel After Pair Are Caught in Compromising Position At School Board Meeting”

 

I would probably rather go by myocardonial inpaction.

 

No, I’ve decided that what is going to kill me is something as simple as a thermostat.

 

You see, my beautiful and intelligent wife has only one tiny flaw. Just one itty bitty one.

 

She’s a polar bear.

 

I cannot prove this but I am sure at some point, while I am sleeping or working in another state, she takes off her human suit and crawls into the freezer.

 

How do I know that she is a polar bear? Simple. She insists on keeping our house cold enough to hang meat.

 

I will admit that during the summer, I do like to enjoy me some good ole air conditioning. But not like her.

 

We have this fancy new thermostat that hangs on the wall in our hallway and every time you walk by it, the dastardly thing lights up to announce what temperature it has be set to.

 

My preference during the summer is about 75-ish.

 

My wife’s preference? -109

 

See what I mean? Either she is a polar bear or a corpse.

 

I like to look out into the yard occasionally but forget it during the summer unless you have an ice pick handy to hack the a thin layer of ice from the window panes.

 

And I used to worry about food spoiling if we left leftovers out over night. Not anymore.

 

Got a 100 pounds of raw chicken with no place to store it? Bring on over to our place. We’ll toss it onto the kitchen counter and it’ll keep there until at least October just fine.

 

I have learned long ago not to argue with her about the thermostat. If she wants to turn our heat pump into a snow blower, so be it.

 

My wife also collects quilts so at least I can pile twenty or thirty on top of my while I watch TV and as long as my mouth isn’t covered, I’m usually okay.

 

The worst time of the day to live with a polar bear is at night. She turns the thermostat down so low, there aren’t even any numbers down there. Then she crawls into her den (our bed) swathed from head to toe in a triple-knit flannel that would make a Lumber Jack jealous. Under some more quilts.

 

Me, on the other hand… well, I sleep commando. It’s the way I came into this world and, being in my natural state is the most comfortable way to sleep.

 

Heck, if I could walk around in public naked, I’d probably do it but I would be writing this from prison with a phone I had to smuggle up my… well, you know where.

 

I’m pretty comfy in the buff under those quilts until I have to get up and pee.

 

That’s when we have a problem.

 

I lay there and think about it for a while. I could try to go back to sleep and hope I don’t dream about having to pee. That’s happened before and it’s pretty embarrassing.

 

Or I can make a run for it.

 

That’s usually what I do. And I always regret it.

 

The moment I sling back those covers, I realize I am living with a polar bear.

 

Holy Bettlejuice!

 

The difference in temperature between what’s under the covers and out here in the open air is something like 500 degrees.

 

Have you ever seen one of those YouTube videos of people living up in the Artic tossing a pot of boiling water into the air and it freezing instantly?

 

That’s basically what happens to me.

 

I’m cozy one minute and frozen stiff the next. Well, not stiff everywhere. You know. Shrinkage.

 

The older I get, the more these type of temperature changes hit me. Stepping into the house after working outside for a while takes my breath away.

 

Jumping into the deep end of the pool gives me a jolt not unlike the feeling you get when you drink a grape slushy too quickly. But for my whole body.

 

And getting out of my warm cozy bed into the raging blizzard that is my bedroom, well, that’s the one that’s going to put the nails in my coffin.

 

One of these days, I’m going to be lying there in my warm cozy bed, dreaming about flying 40,000 feet above the earth with a supermodel begging me to join her in the Mile High Club when suddenly I’ll feel the urge to pee.

 

And I’ll wake up. I always do at this point in my dreams.

 

And I’ll have a choice.

 

I can either try to go back to sleep and rejoin my beautiful super model with the devilish grin on her face soaring high above the earth.

 

Or I can get up and pee.

 

After a few moments of indecision, I’ll reluctantly throw back the covers in anticipation of getting out of bed.

 

And that’s when it will happen.

 

The polar bear will rise up from her den of quilts and heating pads and declare that she has not been sleeping but rather listening intently to me talking in my sleep about hot models and joining the Mile High Club.

 

And then from beneath the covers somewhere she will pull the 9mm pistol I gave her last Christmas. (How long has she had that under there?)

 

Now, normally I have catlike reflexes and would have easily dodged the bullet but as soon as the Arctic air of our bedroom hits me, I am literally frozen in place.

 

And it’s over that quickly.

 

No jealous husband. No myocdamixal infarctuation.

 

Nope, just good old fashioned death by polar bear.