Males, apparently, don’t feel the cold. My husband can fill the furnace dressed only in shorts and boots. Elder wears shorts the whole year round. Younger, a little more pliable at fifteen, at least wears jeans, but the mention of a coat earns me a blank look of innocence.
The other night, as my husband, Younger, and I were leaving the house, I noticed Younger wore only a T-shirt. “Grab a sweatshirt,” I immediately told him.
“My jacket is in the car,” he responded.
Jacket, by the way, not coat. But I did not argue. I simply said, “Put it on before you help your dad unload the wood in the truck.”
Younger presented his blank look. “It’s not cold.”
I have heard those words so many times. From all those of the male persuasion in my house. Five degrees outside, and I get, “It’s not cold.”
“Put the jacket on,” I repeated, firming my voice and adding a meaningful glance at my husband.
So, my husband and Younger hurried to start unloading wood while I finished readying the dogs for a few hours on their own. Then I followed the other two outside, curious of all of Younger’s snickering as I tracked the driveway to the car. Once I settled in my seat, I finally took a longer look at my son.
To find him wearing the jacket, as I had ordered.
But no T-shirt, his bare chest shining in the fresh moonlight.
And at the expression on my face, he burst into a round of insane laughter. My husband ignored the incredulous gaze I swung on him with stoicism. Younger laughed even more maniacally.
I don’t know how the mixing of the X and Y chromosomes creates such loons.
All I know is I am surrounded by them.
And, at some point on the thermometer, it does actually hit “cold.”
Crazy, bare-chested loons.