Ice, Ice Baby?

Kristen and I met a long time ago -- 12 years ago last month, to be exact -- and from the first time she took off her shoes and socks and pressed her tootsies against my leg, I knew that she had the coldest feet on the planet. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, she'll slyly place them on my thigh or calf or shin, and I'll wake up screaming from the shock.

Screaming. Usually a shrill scream, not unlike an 8-year-old girl.

And it's not just her feet. It's her hands, too. Frigid.

When the power went out in our neighborhood for 12 hours last year (during the hottest stretch of the summer, mind you), we saved our frozen foods by placing them around Kristen's feet and hands. What could have been losses totaling nearly $40 (that's right, four-oh), were greatly limited. For the one and only time, I thanked God for her poor circulation.

Well, that's all done now. Kristen's heart, now doing double-duty, is pumping the blood through all of her body now -- not just stopping at the wrists and ankles -- and instead of the Arctic grip, it's now strangely warm. Instead of giving me a heart attack when she slaps her paws on my flesh, it feels all nice. Comforting even. No more squealing from me. I'm all man now. And I can tell it's annoying her a bit, that I'm no longer on the edge. I don't have that feeling of impending doom any more.

I think she's on to me, though. Last night, I saw her holding several ice cubes in her hands and heard her muttering "This isn't over..."

Gulp.