I’m getting cold feet, but don’t worry – it’s not what you think.

In fact, it’s actually much, much worse because I literally get cold feet every time I go to bed with my fiancée. We both snuggle into bed all cozy and warm, only for me to awaken about five hours into the night with miniature icicles hanging from my toes, all the while she continues to slumber ever-so-soundly, her feet as warm as a summer campfire. Also, my share of the blankets that would normally be allocated to the region of my feet are now currently residing somewhere underneath her left elbow. Now I’m no rocket scientist, but I think there’s something of a correlation to be made here…

Hint: It involves my fiancée completely and relentlessly hogging all of our blankets once I’ve fallen a slumber and thus let my guard down.

And the problem is, she’s really good at it, to the point where it wouldn’t really surprise me to learn that she actually earns extra money on the weekends by teaching other women how to monopolize the blankets in bed to simulate igloo-like sleeping conditions for their men. I’m not exactly sure just how much of a market there is for a service like that, but I guess if there’s one thing that us men can learn from co-existing with the opposite sex, it’s that they don’t necessarily need a reason to do whatever it is that they’re doing – case in point: shaving ones eyebrows, only to then immediately draw them back on.

I think the worst thing is that the following morning she never fails to enjoy a good chuckle over it, despite the fact that I had to spend thirty minutes unthawing my feet before I was able to physically move my toes. You see, the blanket thieving actually only accounts for part of her system, for prior to ever even wiggling into bed, my angel first insists on dropping the thermostat a handful of degrees cooler than the normal, comfortable temperature that we usually keep the house during the day. She knows what’s about to happen, and yet she cranks down the air anyways, almost as if she’s either trying to freeze me out to pave the way for her new, woollier fiancé that is better equipped for regulating his own body temperature, or she’s prepping me to eventually be cryogenically frozen like Walt Disney.

Either way, not necessarily my cup of iced tea…

So what’s a foot lover to do, and I meant that in regards to my own feet – not in some creepy way … not that there’s anything wrong with appreciating a freshly-pedicured pair on a hot summer’s night. Of course, in my world, I’ll never actually know what a hot summer’s night feels like because my bedroom is the equivalent of the arctic circle, except that at least there I’d have penguins to keep me entertained while I’m freezing to death! It’s certainly one of the more arduous deeds that our relationship has encountered thus far, and we’ve endured holidays together – two Christmases, a Valentine’s Day, and one particularly challenging Cinco de Mayo. Nonetheless, I wouldn’t wish cold feet on even my worst of enemies.

Well, ok – maybe my worst of enemies, but I’m sure they did something equally horrible to earn such a title in the first place.

Sadly, my options are limited, and I didn’t mean that in the extraordinarily depressing way that it reads when you put it down on paper! My options for my cold feet problem are limited, that is – sure, I could buy a pair of slippers, but who wears slippers in Florida?! And besides, they don’t make Bert & Ernie slippers in my size anyways. Many a times I’ve threatened to staple the blankets down to the bed frame to ensure that they’ll be shared proportionately, but that would require me actually finding my staple gun and my fiancée has thus far been successful in calling my bluff. I’ve also considering maybe just lighting a small campfire in the corner of the bedroom – you know, nothing huge, but big enough to keep me warm and also offer a venue for s’mores should hunger strike in the middle of the night – but I’m not sure if our lease mentions anything regarding campfires and I’m kind of afraid to ask…

It seems as though at this point maybe I’m simply destined to have cold feet, always shivering in the awe of my soon-to-be-wife’s warm, healthy, and happy tootsies. That’s right, I just used the word tootsies in a serious tense – clearly I’m looking valuable oxygen or blood flow or something during the great deep freeze down there!

Anyways, to all of the other guys out there who have wives and girlfriends that my fiancée may or may not have taught how to freeze them out of house and home, please accept my sincere apologies for any lack of feeling in your extremities that you may experience. I’d like to say that I feel your pain, but at least I can tell you this – after a while, you won’t feel anything at all…