Sixty-eight is a sweater temperature
Every October the same thing happens in this house. The first cool morning arrives, and somebody, I will not say who but she has been my wife for forty-one years, walks past the thermostat and nudges it to seventy-two.
Seventy-two degrees is not a temperature. It is a greenhouse. It is a place where tomatoes grow. Human beings in the upper Midwest have survived for centuries on wool, flannel, and a firm refusal to pay the gas company one more cent than necessary.
I have put a sweater on the arm of every chair. I have labeled the thermostat. I have explained the physics of heat loss through single-pane windows at the dinner table, twice. It is currently seventy-one. I am not winning, but I am not surrendering either.
Priya Raman @soup_season ·
Hank, I say this with love. Make a pot of soup. Everyone warms up, nobody touches the dial.
Marcus Bell @gatelice ·
Every hotel room I stay in is set to sixty-four. I would like to introduce you to them.
Tomas Reyes @tomas_parents ·
My kids found the thermostat this week. We are at seventy-nine. Send help, or at least a fan.