Six degrees of separation: A struggle for climate control compromise

Pat Benatar had it all wrong. It's not love that's a battlefield -- it's your house. That is, if you live with a man whose body temperature is vastly different from your own.

Then and only then does the hall thermostat become a weapon of mass dysfunction. Then and only then do you plot covert missions titled 75 Degrees of Comfort. Then and only then will you army crawl to the hallway while your husband brushes his teeth so you can undo his not-so-covert mission titled 65 Degrees of Misery. At least I'm pretty sure that's what it's called.

It's not a new fight, the temperature of our home. We have, after all, lived together 4½ years. It's the evolution of the fight that keeps things interesting.

I'm always cold. He's always hot.

When we initiated the cohabitation, both of us foolishly practiced a little thing called honesty. We lived in a one-bedroom, 700-square-foot apartment and the thermostat was still just the thermostat. It hadn't yet become the coveted almighty device it is today. Back then we would politely ask the other if it was "a tad warm" or "slightly chilly," as we made our way to the thermostat. Of course we never waited for an answer, but at least it sounded awful courteous.

By the time we moved into a rental home a year later, it didn't take long for that scenario to change into this one.

Him: (Stripping down to boxers before the front door had shut behind him in July) It's (expletive) Africa in here! How are you OK with this?!

Me: (Watching TV while sporting earmuffs, mittens and a muffler in December) Why are you forcing me to live in (expletive) Antarctica?!

Yep, around the world in 10 degrees. When that didn't drive the point home, we'd turn to more subtle, yet creative tactics.

Him: Our house feels like Big Foot's armpit.

Me: Just remember, frigid is as frigid does.

Us grasshoppers quickly learned that approach will only get you so far. "So far" actually translating to so close to making the 10 o'clock news.

We've since established an unspoken rule: Never go for your desired degrees. Just increase or decrease the thermostat a couple of notches. Ya know, to keep some relative peace.

Still, I'm always cold. He's always hot.

We've lived in our current house almost three years now. And, we've been formulating clandestine plans of attack on the other's favorite temperature the entire time. The key lies in identifying the right opportunity. The second I hear the intro to ESPN's "SportsCenter," I make a mad dash for the thermostat. Between the volume of the TV and the adrenaline rush that is the Top 10 Plays, he won't hear the heater kick in, nor will he notice he's shirtless by the end of it.

I, on the other hand, don't get hypnotized so easily. Yet, my husband still manages to win the ultimate battle: bedtime. I've learned in the past year that I can army crawl to the hallway thermostat before hitting the sack all I want. As soon as I'm in a deep slumber, dreaming about toasty temperatures, he makes his move.

Not that I mind waking up in the middle of the night with icicles for eyelashes. It's more the frostbitten toes that get bothersome. Then again, he probably endures my comfort zone and longs for a Bikram yoga studio.

That's not where the madness ends. Some couples like to celebrate ownership of the remote control when a significant other goes out of town. Or the pleasure that is the entire bed. We've both been known to make out with the thermostat when one of us leaves for the weekend. We're not proud. But it's hard to resist forbidden Fahrenheit.

As selfish as it all might seem, we ultimately have the other's best interest at heart.

Not too long ago, I pointed out that we have different methods of making our bed. He takes our fuzzy fleece blanket and covers the entire bed with it. I fold it up and place it at the foot of the bed.

When we both explained our reasoning, I felt like we were having our very own modern-day gift of the Magi moment. He makes it his way so I can stay warm. I make it my way so he can keep cool.

I'm always cold. He's always hot. But together we're just right.

Contact columnist Xazmin Garza at xgarza@reviewjournal.com or 702-383-0477.
Follow her on Twitter at @startswithanx.