The Hulk

Lately it has been a zillion degrees. It starts out hot and gets hotter through the day. It makes simple things hard, and it makes me grumpy. The air conditioning is trying, but in the case of air conditioning vs. a zillion degrees, a zillion degrees wins. I think the only way to really make it feel nice and cool inside my house during these oppressively hot days is to go outside for fifteen minutes and then reenter. Then it feels positively lovely for a few moments. 

I woke up to a disaster last week. The two pillows I use were flung in opposite directions across the room. The top sheet was yanked out, pulled up and over my head, and crammed into the space between the headboard and the mattress. The bottom sheet was peeled back from the mattress and lumped up under my feet. Even my husband's pillow was resting precariously on a floor lamp across the room. 

Since I was pretty sure that everything was tidy and neat when I fell asleep, I rubbed my eyes and took another look. Still a disaster. I looked across the top of the bare mattress at Mike to see what in the world he had done.

"You did it," he said, exhausted.

"I did what?"

"You did this mess."

"While I was asleep?" I asked, skeptical. 

"You kept saying you were hot and you tossed around, yanked at the sheets, threw stuff. All Night Long." 

"I do kind of remember being hot, but I thought I just folded the sheet back."

"Being hot turns you into The Hulk," he mumbled on his way back to a pillowless sleep.

The Hulk. That is something nobody has ever compared me to.

I think I like it.