Romancing The Storm

Before this weekend’s Nor’easter blew in, my idea of a cozy storm went something like this: There is a blazing fire roaring in the fireplace and the room is toasty warm. My husband and I are lying on a soft furry rug sipping wine and gazing into each other’s eyes. The wind is roaring outside and tree limbs are snapping off. We snuggle up. And then the inevitable happens: passion and romance. In my dream, there was always romance when the lights went out.

But things never turn out the way you imagine them. Anyone who knows me, can tell you that I romanticize a lot about being stranded in a cabin during a winter storm with nothing but my books and a few dimly lit candles. But when the dream comes true, it is a nightmare.

I realized, this weekend, that dimly lit candles are only romantic when they are an option. When they become your only source of light for three days, they become annoying real fast.

And there is nothing romantic about going without a bath for two or three days. When the only options for personal hygiene are an ice cold shower or the tepid murky water of a sponge bath, you opt out of both and choose to stay a safe distance away from your mate.

My primary concern this weekend was simply keeping warm. It was all about building up the layers from the inside out. It didn’t matter if the shirts were ironed or the colors matched because my top layer was a down-filled coat that covered everything down to my shoes. In fact, contrary to my previous feelings about being stranded in a storm, romance never entered my mind this weekend - until my husband came up with his idea for keeping warm.

“I know one way we can keep warm,” he suggested with a wink and a gleam in his eye, “but I’ve got to freshen up a bit first.” With no hot water for a shower, he took the other option - an old fashioned sponge bath.

A half hour later, he swaggered into the kitchen, and fixed himself a cocktail, extolling the wonders of the sponge bath. “I feel so fresh!” he exclaimed. “You should take a sponge bath too.”

A weak, “M-a-y-b-e,” was all I could muster. With the thermostat reading 50 degrees indoors, and the wind blowing through the walls, it was going to take a lot more than a wink and a sponge bath to get something going with me tonight.

“Oh, come on, it’s not that cold,” he chuckled. Then, seeing my hesitation, he added, “What do the Eskimos do?”

We ate dinner by candlelight, with lots of wine, and I finally began to warm up enough to remove my coat and hat. My husband offered to do the dishes so I could “get ready.”

“Go take your sponge bath,” he urged me, and I left him humming a tune over the static on the transistor radio, happy in his task and full of expectations for the evening ahead.

“Don’t forget to boil the water first,” I reminded him, “so you can clean the dishes with some nice hot water…” and as I said the words, I realized that I would not be taking that murky sponge bath, after all, since he was using the only kettle we had to boil water to wash the dishes. Oh, well.

I headed upstairs anyway, a little groggy from too much wine, but very mellow and very warm. I began undressing and redressing for bed. Layers came off and new ones piled on: a turtleneck cotton shirt, long undies, woolen socks pulled up to my knees, a heavy flannel nightgown, gloves and hat.

I took a book and a lantern to bed, but in a matter of moments, my eyelids began to droop, so I blew out the lantern, burrowed into the chilly sheets and pulled my hat down over my face.

Some time later, my husband awakened me from a distant dream as he slid into bed, grunting and gasping in quick shortened breaths from the shock of cold air on skin.

“Still feeling romantic?” I murmured from under my hat.

“Are you?” he asked.

“I asked you first.”

“I thought you were asleep.”

“Tell you what,” I dared him. “You start. Take off your hat and socks and let me know if you’re still in the mood.”

“Brrr! Jeez!” was the romantic response I got from the other side of the bed.

I waited a moment and nothing more was forthcoming, so I pulled my hat back down over my face, leaving just enough room for my two nostrils to take in the cold night air.