Even when I wear socks and slippers around the house in the evening, I always go to bed with cold feet. My favorite solution is to warm them up on Stephen. He doesn’t love this, but he’s a pretty good sport about it.
Early in our marriage, a friend advised Stephen that he could break this habit by putting his cold feet on me first. When I protested (which of course I would), he could point out the double standard in my behavior and I would be forced to concede defeat. Unfortunately, this plan was stymied by the fact that I am not fazed by double standards. “So it’s a double standard. Add it to the list.”
Fast forward almost six years: Stephen has at last devised a plan to keep himself unmolested by my icicle-toes. It’s so simple, he wonders why he didn’t think of it a long time ago.
We have a handy-dandy little heat pack that we made when I was pregnant. I found the low-tech instructions on the internet: fill a sock with rice and tie a knot in the top. After 1-2 minutes in the microwave, it’s toasty and comforting, and smells pretty good, too.
So one frosty night, Stephen heated up the rice sock and placed it at the foot of the bed, like the pans of hot coals or hot water bottles of yore. Voila! I can curl my toes around the sock to my heart’s content, and Stephen can drift off to sleep without worrying about the frosty White Witch stealing his body heat. (Incidentally, it’s safer than the other solution we used to resort to on desperate nights, which involved an ancient space heater under the covers. Don’t tell the Fire Marshall.)