So the new/old truck has really thin doors that could both probably use new seals and we’ve been in Pennsylvania, where the median surface temperature hovers somewhere around “cold as hell” for about four months out the year. Consequently, the right side of my body has frozen and will never age again. My right ear is made of marble and my fingers make a “tap tap” sound on the keys as I type. Not in a good way.
It’s not really that bad — I do have a little patch on my thigh that stays kind of cold. And I could possibly be at the age where I’m having a little trouble regulating my body temperature. I may or may not have flung myself into the bunk once or twice to tear off my clothing like a madwoman because of a hot flash, and I never hesitate to whine when I’m cold, so my temperate zone is pretty specific.
We’ve still yet to discover the happy medium in the new truck, as far as sleeping with a heater goes. The first night I slept under our quilt draped over that hot-ass bunk heater air blowing directly on to my legs, I felt like a fruit roll-up when I woke up in the middle of the night. Thankfully, a breeze wafted through the cab and caught my dehydrated carcass in it, so I was able to fall out of the bunk and drink a half-gallon of water and plump back up. Holy crap. I escaped from the quilt-encased oven, gasping and pulling my clothes off.
“Oh my God, I’m going to die. My brain is going to fry and I’m going to die. We’re in bat country.”
George rolled over to see what all the hubub was. “How long do you think you’re going to have hot flashes?”
“It’s not a hot flash! It’s the damn bunk heater! You can’t feel it because you’re on the inside. The damn thing is cooking me. Turn it off!”
“You turn it off — you know which button it is. I’m going back to sleep.”
“Well I am so glad I’m not in any danger of dying from dehydration, or anything. I mean, God forbid I bother you with my gasping death.”
He mumbled something about dehydrated people not being able to make as much noise as I was making and went immediately back to sleep. I doused myself with water, turned the bunk heater off and crawled back in. I woke up with a frozen t-shirt and a icicle-snot nose about three hours later. I shot out of the bunk to collect all the clothes I had torn off earlier.
“Oh my God, I’m going to freeze to death.”
Poor George. He didn’t even roll over this time — he just started yelling at the wall in front of him.
“Really guy?! You can’t just find a temperature and stick to it?! You gotta wake me up every three hours to tell me you’re dying?! Just start the damn truck and idle it with the front heat on, Princess. I’ve got two and a half hours before I have to get up and I’m going back to sleep.”
“I really don’t like it when you call me Princess in a derogatory way. Or when you call me guy.”
He mumbled something about, “you think that’s derogatory,” and immediately fell back to sleep.
I did turn the truck on and I did idle it with the front heat running and it was comfy and cozy. So there. I solved that problem, but now we’re running to Laredo, Texas, and I think the temperature may have to be adjusted more than once. Live and learn.
"Until a formal regulation is established with clear guidelines and borders ...