Our house is constructed such that the downstairs is often cool, pleasant, and breezy while the upstairs is stifling hot and so stuffy it smells like the tomb featured in Poe's "The Telltale Heart." Yesterday was one of those days. It dropped down to the 60s in the evening with a nice breeze and Corey and I had blankets on as we sat on the couch.
When we got upstairs, he insisted it was still cold and shut all the windows. I felt roastingly hot and suffocated by the still air, so I turned on the fan. He was taken aback at my being hot, yelling that it was freezing cold in there as he dove under the blankets. I insisted it was hot, like a pizza oven, and threw open the window. He finally yelled, "Well you have sunburn! That's why you're hot!"
It was one of those moments where I felt so stunned by this ridiculous accusation I didn't know what to say. I wasn't sunburned at all. Not even a little. Thanks to Val, I had 45 on all weekend and kept reapplying. It was simply hot upstairs, perhaps hot enough to burn my skin where the sun failed. I just ignored him and enjoyed the breeze from the fan as I read my book.
Then, twenty minutes later, he sprang from bed exclaiming, "I can't believe you only turned the fan on low! It's so hot in here!" He might be crazy.