I can’t get up. It’s dark o’clock. I’ve burrowed so deeply into my blankets that they feel a part of me. I need them. There’s no way I can leave them. And then I feel it, the cold air. I realize my hair is actually cold. The tip of my nose is cold. Every part of my body not covered by this glorious down- filled comforter is a painful, frigid surface I must somehow immediately cover. And that’s when the bargaining begins. “It can’t be 6 am, right? I can stay here a little longer. I’m never late for work. Just a few more minutes.” I have no idea who I’m trying to get permission from, but what I do know is the battle between my love of comfort and my responsible adult has officially begun.
I’ve gotten very creative these past few mornings to appease this comfort creature living inside of me. I now leave a fleece pullover near my blanket so I can entice my arms out of the blanket and into something equally as soft and warm as soon as my eyes open and the cold-hair sensation registers. And I also have fleece socks and warm fleece-lined slippers at the foot of my bed in case my feet also decide to rebel. What can I say? It takes a village.
And in this “cuffing season” I have to say I think the “snuggle struggle” is way less of a struggle without a bed mate. I mean, seriously, I almost lost my first job as a journalist because of it. Let me explain:
At the time, I lived in Breckenridge, Colorado and found myself falling head over heels for the resident bad boy. I’d just landed a job as a beat reporter in a town where nothing newsworthy happened. While I did manage to do a feature story one time at the top of Peak 5 where senior citizens were competing in their own version of the Olympics, I mostly wrote human interest pieces about chili cook-offs and local happenings. And then I met HIM. Still trying to get my bearings in a new place and new career, I didn’t anticipate meeting a man who defied every ounce of logic. He was everything I swore I’d never date: uneducated, unworldly, a smoker, a drinker, covered in tattoos, and prone to bar fights. The kind of man your mom warns you about. And of course I knew better. But he was also absolutely hilarious, warm, thoughtful, and an incredible chef. Our love affair was spontaneous and filled with adventure. And sometimes I’d even come home to gourmet fudge on my pillow or fresh purple…