It’s not cold in my house. Swear to God it’s not. Look, here’s a picture of our indoor temperature gauge, taken just a few minutes ago:
(Side note: the outdoor temperature side never works, because it’s done by a remote sensor that sits about 3 feet away outside…that runs on batteries. Batteries stop working when they get very cold. It gets very cold outside in the winter, and then the batteries rarely ever work again. This is a dumb model for sensing outdoor temperatures, and we’ve stopped replacing the batteries in the outside sensor, using it only to tell time – which is does by radio connection to our local offical time-telling radio tower – and to see the indoor temperature. We use the internet to find out the temperature outside.) </digression>
So. It’s not warm inside, but it’s definitely not cold. And yet I’m sitting on the couch in long, full-length yoga pants, a t-shirt, a sweatshirt, and socks. And I’m still cold. My fingers are like icicles. I am shivering a little bit sometimes. At 71 degrees Fahrenheit and with me bundled up like it’s February, I am still freezing. And now you know why I prefer summer to winter.