Grandpa, It’s hot in Your House
Twenty-five years ago, my wife and I would leave my parents’ home after a visit and snark to each other about how hot it was in their house. According to us, they had the temperature cranked up to about a million degrees.
“I’m sweating like a pig.” “I could hardly breathe.” “How can they live that way?” We were happy to be out of there, smug and confident that we would never be like them.
Then, when we weren’t paying attention, my wife and I grew old. Neither one of us saw it coming, and these days Karma is delivering payback for our youthful arrogance as regularly as the Amazon guy delivers laxatives. We are the ones who live in a hot house, and our children are the ones who leave complaining that the place is a sauna.
My body fat is saying bye-bye, my metabolism has slowed to a crawl, and my hormone production is down to the occasional drip. I have skin like paper. I am going to get cold.
When going out, we adapt. Depending on the destination, I wear long sleeves, sweaters or both. When going to a movie theater, I take a jacket and my wife goes full blanket. At home there are two quilts on the bed, even in summer. And when no one is joining us, we keep the house warm.
I have done a lot of research to prepare for writing this article, research that required me to spend nearly seven…
