To flannel or not to flannel…
Ah, winter. That glorious time of year when all the world’s a refrigerator, and all the milk and eggs merely players. It’s so liberating to not have to rush home from the grocery store to get my perishables into the fridge; they can sit in the trunk all day and be none the wiser, and the fact that I’m excited about that as the pinnacle of the winter season makes me sad for middle-aged people everywhere.
Excellent cold-storage options aside, the winter months have a lot to offer someone like me. I’m not talking about winter sports, of course; if you’ve followed this column for any time at all, you’ll know that my least favorite way to spend a day is careening down a snowy mountain.
When I say I love the colder months, it’s because they usher in all things cozy: baggy sweaters to cover up the added pounds I’ve packed on to see me through the lean hours until dinner; white, twinkling lights draped over every garland, nativity and mantel; and a fragrant potpourri of orange slices, cinnamon sticks and whole cloves steeping in a mini crock-pot round the clock. If you walk in my front door and don’t immediately feel like you want to curl up by the fireplace with a good book, then in my opinion I have failed.
One of my favorite winter rituals is the unfurling of the flannel sheets. As with politics, sports, and the Twilight series, there are decided camps when it comes to this most controversial of cold-weather fabrics. I am definitely Team Flannel, while Logan is Team Never-Flannel. Unfortunately for him, I am the one who buys most of the household goods and makes the bed every morning, so he doesn’t stand a chance.
“I feel like I’m sleeping on a flannel board,” Logan will complain as he climbs into bed on the first night after I’ve put on the flannel sheets, acting out in exaggerated detail how hard it is to roll onto his side or flip over in bed.
“Just be glad I didn’t put on the fleece sheets this year,” I reply, reminding him of the two winters several years ago when we slept on full fleece sheets until even I decided that they were a little much. He shudders as he recalls the feeling of sleeping in an overheated cotton ball.
Logan likes to sleep cold, like an irrational, hibernating polar bear. It’s not unusual for him to crack open our bedroom window on even the most freezing of nights, and to kick out one leg from the blanket for good measure.
I, on the other hand, like to feel as if I’m in a human-size cocoon when I sleep.
“I feel air,” I’ll often announce before shifting the sheets and comforter around so no part of me is exposed to even the slightest draft.
To keep the peace, I have considered cutting my beloved flannel sheets down the middle and sewing one half to some similarly cut plain cotton sheets. Logan on one side, me on the other. But then I remember that I went through a combined 54 months of pregnancy over the course of 11 years, and I figure he can suck up his discomfort for a month or two.
Even with my love of all things cozy, December is rarely the sipping-cocoa-by-the-fire dreamscape that I often envision for myself. Every year I’m like, “We’re going to slow down and focus on the true reason for the season,” and then by December 25, I’m popping Peppermint Crunch Junior Mints like they’re the elixir of life and spinning in circles trying to see all the lights, deliver all the treats, buy all the presents, and make the most of this hap- hap- happiest time of year.
Where are the quiet nights curled up with a book by the fire? Where are all the movie marathons I promised the kids but never quite got to because three sons had basketball double-headers, the dog got a bladder infection, and there were 15 plates of Christmas cookies to deliver before they went stale?
It’s enough to make me want to fall into my flannel sheets until January.