Day 2: Mild Frostbite means I love you

It really does. Let me explain. Right now we're living in a cute, but drafty summer cottage on the Southern Coast of Maine. We're paying our own heating bill, which we've always done, in every apartment we've had. But this year Rich is determined to keep the cost as low as possible. My sure-honey-turn-it-up-to-seventy husband has turned into a ruthless heat-patrol officer. He's set the heat to turn off at 11pm and then turn back on at 7pm the following day. At my house, we are allowed the slim ration of four hours of heated air. I said, "That's fine, because in January, when it's frigid, we can really crank it up." He said, "In January, we'll get a second down comforter and we won't have to turn it on at all."

Last week, Micky (the large ferocious dog) could see his breath... inside. And yesterday, when I stepped into the shower, there was sharp pain. The hot water stung my feet- the way a warm bath hurts after you've been in the cold for too long. Mild Frostbite. In my own house. I danced around the shower until it was manageable, and probably I'm exaggerating because within seconds I was fine.

But here's the thing; at any time I could go and turn up the thermostat, and sometimes I do go and stare at it longingly. I know that I could turn it up to 73 degrees and say "Sorry, Rich, but I'm tired of being cold," and it would stay at 73 degrees. I know this, I fantasize about this, and yet in the end I choose to be freezing. It's not about saving money. I do this because I know that it's important to my Husband and while I can be quite selfish (as you saw yesterday) I understand that cold feet can say I love you in a way no words can.

Maybe it's true that when you love someone, you show it not by what you give them, but by what you give up for them. For me, it's warm toes.