By Lauren Green
We had a string of uncharacteristically cold days this past spring, and as a cool-weather fan, I welcomed them with open arms. I just made sure those arms were tucked inside my warm fleece jacket. That jacket, along with my hat and gloves kept me cozy and comfortable on chilly morning dog walks. I savored those late-season cold spells because I knew what was lurking around the corner. Summer.
Summer in Texas is a beating. Temperatures wreak havoc on our electric bills. The forecast pivots between hot and hotter for nearly five months. And if you’re an outdoor girl like me, extended time cooped up in air conditioning is maddening. As of late, my heat sensitivity has become even more acute, thanks to my current life stage, one marked by unruly hormones, or more specifically, my lack thereof. I consistently run hot. Which is unfortunate given my living arrangement. Not only do I live in warm-weather planting zone 7, but my housemate and husband is a born-and-bred Chicagoan. As he tells it, the intense cold from his formative years up north has settled deep into his bones. He runs cold.
“It’s freezing in here,” and “I am literally sweating to death.“
There are frequent laments heard around our house. As such, it’s a challenge to find common ground. Or at least comfortable ground. But regardless of how many different ways we try to talk the other into feeling more (or less) hot (or cold), at the end of the day, we honor the same routine. With my husband wrapped burrito-style in his fuzzy blanket and me splayed like a starfish above the covers, we lean in, kiss and exchange I love yous.
We’ve been married for over 30 years, which means we’ve had plenty of practice cohabitating. Although our current battle over thermostat settings is real, I’m not worried. We have a pretty good track record working through differences. My husband and I grew up in two different families, living in two distinct locations of the country, so it stands to reason that we would come to our marriage with different ways of seeing things. Over time and with practice, we learned to navigate these differences while growing our own family, discovering that the balancing act of relational living brings out both the best (and worst) in us. Being part of a family is a gift, but realistically speaking, it’s a gift with strings attached.
Growing up, my best friend Bess was considered part of my family, just as I was considered part of hers. Mostly that was a good thing, but not always. I was a picky eater as a kid. Bess was not. She was the youngest of four, and I suspect by the time she came around, her parents didn’t have the mental bandwidth to deal with a finicky palate. As such, Bess was what adults called a good eater. She ate complicated foods like Benedictine sandwiches, asparagus on toast and cottage cheese with fruit. She also ate McDonald’s hamburgers fully loaded. These burgers were one of the greatest treats of my childhood. That is, unless I was with Bess’ family.
I remember a day her dad took us through the McDonald’s drive-thru window. Bess and I sat together, unbuckled with 1970s freedom in the back seat of her sprawling family car. We unwrapped our burgers and a pungent whiff of onions filled the air. My parents always let me order plain hamburgers, and the only smell they had was a lovely scent of meat and carbs. This odor, on the other hand, was an affront to my senses. Ketchup, mustard, pickles and all those little chopped onions wreaked havoc on my burger. Smeared into the top of the bun, the smelly mash-up was impossible to scrape off. I can’t remember if I ate that hamburger or not, but what I do remember is feeling offended that I hadn’t been given an opportunity to place my own custom-made order.
Today I understand that by treating me like one of his own, Bess’ dad was showing me that family life isn’t always a comfortable life. No doubt, interactions with those we love can fluctuate wildly; hearts warm one minute and shoulders cold the next. But still, count yourself lucky if you have people in your life you consider family, or like family. Biological, self-created, fully loaded or plain Jane, all families are custom-made. Lean in, kiss and say “I love you” every chance you get.