A Cocoon of Warmth

 In order to survive a vicious New England winter, one must build a cocoon of warmth.

We keep our thermostat set to 70 degrees. It is not 70 degrees in this house. The thermostat registers 70 degrees. The thermostat sits directly above a fucking heating vent.

It is 29 degrees in my Recliner Zone.

I sit in the Royal Chair wearing two sweatshirts. Actually, one fleece - which is delightfully thick - and one sweatshirt.

Not enough.

I also cover myself with a blanket and one or two cats.

I cannot just throw the blanket over my ancient body; it must be strategically arranged.

Stretched down beyond my ankles and rising halfway up the instep of each foot. Tucked under my arms, wrapped securely around my chest. Pulled all the way up to my chin.

A perfectly situated cocoon of warmth.

Until I have to go to the bathroom.

My bladder screams in agony over my procrastination.