Cold Feet

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We've all heard of cold feet, the anxiety-driven "fight or flight" thing that happens before a big life event. But I'm not talking about that kind of cold feet, I'm talking about literal cold feet. I'm mere weeks away from a significant milestone birthday, and some of the more unwelcome changes that come with age are starting to creep up on me.

Specifically, my feet turn into popsicles late at night.

Now, granted, some of this may be related to the night time temperature in my house, which I keep cool because of extraordinary cheapness. But that can't be all there is to it, because I have always kept the house cooler at night. No, this is strictly a case of mother nature messing with me. A few months ago I decided The Husband deserved better than a wife who fell into bed in the same clothes she wore all day, that had since been covered in a thick layer of puréed food and toddler snot. I started wearing actual "Lady of the Manor" night clothes to bed.

Any benefit gained by this change has been summarily negated by my new-found need to wear SOCKS TO BED like a 92-year-old man. Because nothing says sexy-time like running a sock-covered foot up and down your husband's thigh at night.

For my younger readers who are wondering what they can do to avoid this plague of the feet, the only words of wisdom I can offer are these: DON'T GET OLDER!! That's it, that's all I've got. Oh that and maybe try to find some evening socks that match my night clothes...