Chad and I did a very fine job abiding by the terms and conditions of our vacation.  Oh sure, he bordered on disdain a few times and I bordered on ice queen, but, for the most part, I think we were quite successful. 

The terms and conditions made me think about the fights we have had in our marriage--I think there have been two real ones.  Both, in my view, are completely not my fault.  One is a recurring battle that involves serious deception on Chad’s part, and the other centered around a French philosopher.

I have been serially cold since I was about 12, and Chad is a walking fire.  For three of the seasons, I have a space heater pointed at my side of the bed, and Chad has a fan pointed at him.  A front typically forms in the middle of our bedroom.  We are probably to blame for some serious natural disasters because of this behavior. 

In addition to his fan that sits on the floor and points directly at him and causes arctic winds to circle my nose, Chad always wants the ceiling fan on, too.  I think this would be fine if we could also have an electric blanket or trade our mattresses in for a tanning bed, but until then, I have an issue with the ceiling fan. 

Here is the serious deception.  Every fall, Chad tries to tell me that he is going to reverse the direction of the ceiling fan so that, Beth, it is actually warming the room.  And this begins just an epic argument because I do not believe for one second that the ceiling fan is creating heat by circulating air that, again, creates arctic winds that swirl around my face.  Chad tries to win the argument by breaking out all kinds of ridiculousness about science, but he fails to appreciate how I’m absolutely immune to science and completely attune to the temperature of a room.  If I can reach down and break off a toe because my foot has frozen, your fan is not creating heat.  Chad has busted out the owner’s manual for the fan and wikipedia and all kinds of ceiling fan treatises, but I’m not buying.  Air is moving.  That air is cold.  Period. 

This is a problem for us, and we are each so convinced of our own rightness that I fear we will fight about this until we die.  Chad turns the fan on anyway, so I should note here that the fight will probably end with my death from hypothermia.

The other major fight of our marriage started because of Rene Descartes.  We were watching The Soup, and the writers kindly wished him a very happy birthday and then said that if you know who Rene Descartes is, you probably shouldn’t be watching The Soup.   Well, don’t you know that Chad turns to me and says “do you know who Rene Descartes is?”  And I’m so offended and tell him that of course I know who Rene Descartes is, and I felt that at that moment my mother, the Academic Team Coach who made me play years of quick recall, was having a seizure somewhere from just feeling him asking that question. 

But does he stop there?  Oh no.  He says, “what did he do? name one thing he did.” 

Oh yes he did.

And right then I felt compelled to point out to Chad that he suffers from Serious Smugness.  I had been silent about the Smugness to that point even though it oozes whenever he rolls out a seven-letter word in Scrabble or lays his entire hand down when we play Rummy (don’t even get me started on this rudeness).  I tell him that I very much am not going to PROVE to him that I know who Rene Descartes is and that he better stop the Serious Smugness or we are not going to have children because I don’t want little Smuglettes running around.  I tell him that if our kids act like him, no one will ever play Chutes and Ladders with them, and they will sit in therapy eventually and talk about how they didn’t know not to have parades for themselves when they win a spelling bee.  Our offspring will suffer.  And it is all going to be exceptionally tragic because he does things like dare his wife to prove that she remembers the work of a French philosopher and mathematician.  I talked about the danger of Smuglettes with such righteous indignation that I believe a choir of angels appeared behind me to sing about it.

Fortunately, this fight ended just like every ceiling fan fight we have ever had, with both of us laughing until we couldn’t breathe (and with me being cold).  I don’t know that we will ever get these two issues resolved, but I will keep you posted.