Sleeping with a hot ass woman

Sleeping with a hot ass woman
Dammit woman! Don't sweat me in the cockpit!

For those of you hoping that this is going to be some kind of 50 Shades of Grey smut-fest, sorry.  The title should probably have read "hot assed woman", but I had to get your interest somehow.

Sleeping in the winter time is the best time for me.  Winter sleeping offers everything that is great about sloth and being bum style.  It's like being in college again.  Sleeping under the Mt. Fuji of blankets, wearing the rattiest, dirtiest, baggiest and most comfortable clothes from a disgusting pile of month old laundry and not coming out until the thaw is dreamlike.  Aside from the most obnoxious of "type A's" who wouldn't love that?  The only rival to that would be a summer thunderstorm, but really it's no contest.  Kind of like Notre Dame vs. Alabama.  HEY NOW!

I kid, I kid.  But really, I hate Notre Dame, so suck it.

My winter time dormancy has been stolen from me by a hot assed woman.  Check that, a hot assed pregnant woman.  My pregnant wife has turned into the human torch and loves to sweat me in the middle of the night.  Feeling blindly in the dark and crawling all over and throwing a leg over top of me so that she "knows I'm there". 

My wife has always run a little hot and it is normal for a pregnant woman's body temperature to elevate one or two degrees from the normal 98.6.  A quick google search confirmed my suspicions as my education of pregos lumbers forward.  However, I didn't need any baby center to tell me what my body is telling me every damn night. 

The wife acts as a python year round.  Her cold reptilian blood must be warmed by the sun 16 hours a day and then straight to bed or she will die.  At the peak of summer she will lay on the couch in sweatpants covered with a blanket, the air conditioner OFF and take a nap.  She only wakes when the sweat begins to pool in her ears.  Example; last summer we went to a motorcycle rally during Memorial Day weekend.  As she was prone to do during those days she consumed a skosh too much of the naughty water, so she napped it out in the tent for hours.  I took off with the guys into town and the other women stayed back to have a naked tickle fight (I'm assuming) and keep an eye on the camp.  The wife slept so long and got so sweaty in the hot-ass tent that they drug her into the fresh air out of concern.  She was not amused or fresh smelling.

So that is what I am dealing with, one hot assed woman.

Fast forward to the pregnant wife and the last few months, up to and including last night.  It's cold, it's January in Chicago.  I was all ready for bed, ready in my baby blue fleece pants with the little martini glasses on them, a white T-shirt and no socks.  After I dove under the covers I could feel my temperature rising and within seconds, no exaggeration, seconds, I began to sweat.  So off came the fleece pants, still hot, so then off came the T-shirt.  Picture me laying there in the middle of January sleeping in my drawers, sweating. For confirmation I had the wife dab the sweat off of my forehead, nastiness.

Before I get any comments about turning down the heat in the house, it is already kept at 67 degrees by the self appointed thermostat police; the wife.

About this time I realized the one of the many pillows that the wife has to sleep with is touching me and her at the same time.  That frickin' pillow conducted heat like a damn copper coil!  I could feel the heat radiating from her butt into the pillow and because of that my body temperature had risen 8 degrees.  The pillow immediately found it's way to the floor and I rolled over, still hot.

Things could be worse I suppose.  She could be pregnant and emitting solar flares in June or July and were that the case I'd be sleeping in the basement.  For the remainder of the pregnancy, which will be over in April, I'll not bother getting dressed before bed anymore and save myself the hassle.  Maybe sleeping nude in January with the window open can be the next big thing.  That is the next step as the battle rages on.

 

 

 

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    Aaron DeDobbelaere

    Elevating the fatherhood game is what I am doing, daily. Whining, complaining and cursing about kids you will not find here. Parenting is a refined art that so few do to a high level and I have set the bar high. High class, high society, high brow, all the time.

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