Primarily because I am a freak-a-leak, I like to sleep in arctic temperatures, which is great, because I live in Illinois, where winters stretch on for what I am sure is actually several years at a stretch. It’s probably a good thing we don’t move to more temperate climates, as I am fairly certain I would never get a night’s sleep again (with or without Alex’s ministrations of doom), and I would probably become one of those people who wakes drenched in sweat and looking like they had just stepped out of the shower.
Let’s all chime in with a collective “Ew.”
But thankfully for my husband AND my sheets, my bedroom at night tends to get pretty frigid, so much so that occasionally I will snuggle a heating pad (As he is my boyfriend, I have christened him “Stu”) until my body adjusts to the extreme cold.
Several weeks ago, I was doing my standard lay on the heating pad (Stu) routine as I read my book before bed, when I noticed two things almost simultaneously: my back was becoming uncomfortably warm AND there was a noxious smell coming from..well, SOMEWHERE (I have 3 cats, a dog, a baby, a rabbit, a hedgehog, and some leftovers in my fridge that have probably grown teeth by now. There’s no shortage of odd smells emanating from anywhere in my home).
Rather than investigate (read: I’m lazy and tired), I shut Stu off and promptly fell asleep.
Several days later, as I shuffled into my bedroom I noticed that there appeared to be foodstuffs on my sheets. Because I was then overtaken my desire to have a little snack, I went over and investigated further.
Nope, not food, and not even blood.
I had actually succeeded in burning my sheets.
Rather than spend the next several days playing the What If game, and envisioning myself engulfed by flames (not of the burning love variety, either) while I slumbered in my Green Death Nyquil Haze, I chose to have a good laugh at my own expense.
I mean, they put those warnings on heating pads (and electric blankets) for a reason (no, not the “do not submerge in water” ones. Even I know better than that. Mostly.) and yet I chose to ignore them and do precisely what they warn against.
And I suppose this means yet another trip to Target (read: Mecca) for a fresh set of sheets and possibly a vow to my husband that I never, ever, under any circumstances, should operate anything remotely electric.
What makes me saddest is that I am going to have to say a heartfelt good bye to my warm boyfriend Stu, as I toss him unceremoniously into the garbage can. Turns out he was one of those toxic relationships after all.