Heated

Thermoregulation is the correct term. It is our ability to control our internal temperature. Without going into biology or physiology, it must be made clear that there is scientific proof that men retain more body heat than women. I have done a lot of personal research (the keyboard kind), on this subject. The reason being is that He seems genuinely amazed by my body's inability to keep my hands and feet at an even semi tepid state. After so many years of His perplexity at the frigid condition of my extremities, I sometimes feel as if I am biologically handicapped. But then I remember that sooooo many of my female compatriots are plagued by this same condition. However, I am suspicious that He is convinced that it is some kind of conspiratorial campaign intended to further befuddle and baffle His comprehension of "me". I hate having cold hands and feet. HATE. It is not only uncomfortable, it can also be socially embarrassing. I feel like I am constantly apologizing to other people for my icy hands.

On the other hand, His hands seem abnormally hot to me. Hot, not warm. He has hot feet too. His body temperature always feels degrees hotter than mine (although in reality our internal temperatures remain similar). This seems so unfair to me. To His credit, despite being perplexed by our thermal differences, He has always been an accommodating hand and foot warmer. His hands are much bigger than mine, and as long as He holds my hand in His it stays toasty. He really is my hero when He offers Himself up as my personal heating pad. He braces when I greet Him with a hug, and He knows, as I inch his shirt out of His belt, that two icebergs are about to simultaneously embrace his flanks (apparently very sensitive anatomy). However, He never recoils. In bed He will sometimes unconsciously flinch when His feet come into contact with mine. But just when I think my feet are destined to be exiled for the night in Siberia, He will turn over, expecting my poor frozen toes to inch their way up His back and take refuge on His Saharan heaven.

He takes it like a man...

...one more reason I love Him    

   

Half Way There

He started working outside for His first full time job after we were married. He would rise about 5:30 a.m. Its hardest to get up on cold, dark, winter mornings. We lived in an old Victorian house where ice formed on the inside of the windows in winter. The sheet linoleum covering the kitchen floor was an added nasty wake-up call. Needless to say, I did not get up to see Him off.

As hard as my responsibilities have been caring for our children, they rarely involved waking alone, getting ready in the dark, and leaving my family tucked in their beds. Many mornings, (if I am semi-awake), when I hear His alarm go off, I roll over and snuggle up to His back to get warm. After a minute He slowly sets up on the edge of the bed. I can imagine how tempting it is to just lie back down and pull the covers up. But He doesn't.

Winter mornings are the least forgiving. Now the rule is, the worse the weather the earlier He has to get up. On the coldest, most unforgiving mornings He often leaves the house by 4:30 a.m. Meanwhile, I roll over and hunker down.

He gets up...

...one more reason I love Him.

Drive

We are often judged by the things we have. And sadly, our self worth is often determined by the same measure. This social categorizing does not discriminate between genders, however, men have been judged for a longer period of time by the cars they drive than women have. Even confident men succumb to the siren call of the "status car". I don't think it is just about ego. It may be just as much about feeling that they deserve something that symbolizes how hard they have worked. If that is the case it becomes a symbol of validation more than a vindication.

I drive a nicer car than He does. I always have. When we were first married He had enough cash to buy us a new car. We actually bought it two weeks before we got married. We went to the dealer where I picked it off the trailer that had just arrived on the lot that morning. It was a brand-spanking-new 1982, Mazda GLC Hatchback (of course it was light blue). He had transferred the money into our new joint account, and I wrote a check out for the total price. He drove it to my home, gave me the key, and went home in His '52 Plymouth that he was still driving since high school. It really became my car (until I got a new one and turned it over to Him). It was a great car, (I think it is still running around somewhere).

This pattern of car buying has continued throughout our marriage. When we needed, (or wanted), a new car we would go to the dealer, I would pick it out, He would drive it home, and I would then take possession of it. The cars got both bigger and nicer. It doesn't really matter what make or model they were, or even what price point "nicer" is to us. Nicer translates into newer; newer translates into more expensive, and more expensive translates into safer. As He sees it, whatever car I drive also carries His family, and the safety of His family comes before self gratification. I am sure the sirens call for Him. Just as well, I know He must need, or want, both the vindication and validation that a car brings most men in our society. However, I don't shuttle our children around anymore, and I still drive a nicer car than He does.

He turns the keys over...

...one more reason I love Him.

Freedom

He bought His first motorcycle when He was fourteen. He saved the money and paid for it Himself. I think it was a Yamaha. He had the full get-up, helmut, shirt and pads. Everything was bright yellow and black. He even had a cap that looked like a cross between a tam and a beret. He lived in the foothills of the city, and His street bordered the high-line between paved streets and dirt trails. He could effectively ride to the end of His street and be in the dirt. The foothills had an infamous hill called "Molly's. The vertical climb was a little over 50 yards at an almost 60 degree incline. The other side dropped down at about an 80 degree angle (almost a straight drop). This was His pre-heicopter parent, fourteen year old playground.

In other words, He started on an unmonitored adrenaline diet at a fairly young and carefree age. His taste in bikes graduated as He grew older, and I am sure after a few tumbles He became a more cautious driver. When we were dating, and then when we were newly married we would ride for fun. No helmets. No boots. (I was scared of the exhaust pipe though so I always wore long pants, but I had plenty of bare ankles.) He was always a careful driver with me on the back. However, it is difficult to convince me that His early diet hadn't instilled a taste for speed and danger--and that He indulged in it when I wasn't looking.

I don't think it was right away, but pretty soon after we started our family I told Him I couldn't deal with Him riding a motorcycle. Kids do that to you. You begin to understand that you now answer to someone else-your children. You replace your wants with their needs. And what they need is a dad in one piece. So I demanded that He give up riding. I told Him that it was selfish to engage in such a dangerous past time at the expense of our security. I still don't understand the love affair between a guy and a motorcycle, but I think it may have to do with giving Him a sense of freedom. Maybe, for a few short miles, He feels like a carefree fourteen year old on a yellow Yamaha. He made excuses and He complained, but He gave it up. Thats it, He stopped doing something He loved.

He loved me more...

...one more reason I love Him.