This is our thermostat. Let me decode it for you:
On the left, 59 is the temperature in the house. Cold, I know, but I was wrapped in an electric blanket on the couch, so I wasn't aware of just how cold it was until I went upstairs to check.
On the right? 43. That is what Mike set it to - for why? I'm not entirely positive, but I'm sure that there are many reasons and one of them is to see if I'll freeze to death in my sleep. But the joke's on you, Mike, because I don't even HAVE a 401K. HAHAHAHAHAHA!
In his defense, I have trouble sleeping if I'm too warm. I like to breathe cool air. I like to bundle up in blankets and cover everything but my eyes and nose. It's pretty awesome, and it's nice on the weekends. But during the week? That's another story.
My absolute favorite times are when simply turning down the heat does not result in a cool house quickly enough for his liking. That's when the air conditioning goes on. Yes, the air conditioning. In January. The house will be something like, 65 degrees, but he wants it to be 60 degrees, so he turns on the air. It's nice at first, but before I realize what's happening, I am lulled into a state of cool, calm comfort and passively drift away to dreamland.
Oh, and the ceiling fan is usually on, too. I forgot to mention that.
And before I know it, my alarm goes off the next morning, it's 54 fucking degrees and I have to somehow extricate myself from the covers in order to take a shower (generally that is how it works) and it's pretty much what I imagine torture to be.
But I sure do sleep well.