Yay, Heat!

I had been hoping to hold out on turning the heating system on for another week. It'll be fine, I said. I'll just wear sweaters every day, I said. And there's the electric blanket on the bed, I said. I won't need to turn the heat on yet, I said. We'll save more money, I said.
Hah, the Raynaud's Syndrome said, Got your nipples!
Fuck this, I said.
The downstairs is now set to sixty-six degrees (I like even numbers, it's an OCD thing). The upstairs is slowly climbing to seventy. My fingers, toes, ears, nose, and nipples still hurt. But it will be warmer soon. That is all that matters. When Adam comes home from that Jersey job on Friday, the house will be softly toasty, but not warm enough to screw with his internal space heater. I wish I had an internal space heater. I seem to be made of cold.

Seriously don't ever develop Raynaud's Syndrome. Wearing a tight-fitting shirt of any material in cold weather during a flare-up will make you cry. Also, gloves and socks don't always help. Unless they're the expensive kind from hiking stores that are designed for Antarctic vacations, and even then it might still hurt. The biggest danger is being unable to move my bloodless frozen stiff fingers enough to turn a key in a lock or use my cell phone to call for help if I can't get someplace warm enough.
Add cerebral palsy and fibromyalgia to that, ball it all up into one big flare, and, well... I'm going to huddle under a fake-fur blanket and grumble. Maybe one of the cats will join me.

Yay, Heat!

I had been hoping to hold out on turning the heating system on for another week. It'll be fine, I said. I'll just wear sweaters every day, I said. And there's the electric blanket on the bed, I said. I won't need to turn the heat on yet, I said. We'll save more money, I said.
Hah, the Raynaud's Syndrome said, Got your nipples!
Fuck this, I said.
The downstairs is now set to sixty-six degrees (I like even numbers, it's an OCD thing). The upstairs is slowly climbing to seventy. My fingers, toes, ears, nose, and nipples still hurt. But it will be warmer soon. That is all that matters. When Adam comes home from that Jersey job on Friday, the house will be softly toasty, but not warm enough to screw with his internal space heater. I wish I had an internal space heater. I seem to be made of cold.

Seriously don't ever develop Raynaud's Syndrome. Wearing a tight-fitting shirt of any material in cold weather during a flare-up will make you cry. Also, gloves and socks don't always help. Unless they're the expensive kind from hiking stores that are designed for Antarctic vacations, and even then it might still hurt. The biggest danger is being unable to move my bloodless frozen stiff fingers enough to turn a key in a lock or use my cell phone to call for help if I can't get someplace warm enough.
Add cerebral palsy and fibromyalgia to that, ball it all up into one big flare, and, well... I'm going to huddle under a fake-fur blanket and grumble. Maybe one of the cats will join me.

Yay, Heat!

I had been hoping to hold out on turning the heating system on for another week. It'll be fine, I said. I'll just wear sweaters every day, I said. And there's the electric blanket on the bed, I said. I won't need to turn the heat on yet, I said. We'll save more money, I said.
Hah, the Raynaud's Syndrome said, Got your nipples!
Fuck this, I said.
The downstairs is now set to sixty-six degrees (I like even numbers, it's an OCD thing). The upstairs is slowly climbing to seventy. My fingers, toes, ears, nose, and nipples still hurt. But it will be warmer soon. That is all that matters. When Adam comes home from that Jersey job on Friday, the house will be softly toasty, but not warm enough to screw with his internal space heater. I wish I had an internal space heater. I seem to be made of cold.

Seriously don't ever develop Raynaud's Syndrome. Wearing a tight-fitting shirt of any material in cold weather during a flare-up will make you cry. Also, gloves and socks don't always help. Unless they're the expensive kind from hiking stores that are designed for Antarctic vacations, and even then it might still hurt. The biggest danger is being unable to move my bloodless frozen stiff fingers enough to turn a key in a lock or use my cell phone to call for help if I can't get someplace warm enough.
Add cerebral palsy and fibromyalgia to that, ball it all up into one big flare, and, well... I'm going to huddle under a fake-fur blanket and grumble. Maybe one of the cats will join me.

Yay, Heat!

I had been hoping to hold out on turning the heating system on for another week. It'll be fine, I said. I'll just wear sweaters every day, I said. And there's the electric blanket on the bed, I said. I won't need to turn the heat on yet, I said. We'll save more money, I said.
Hah, the Raynaud's Syndrome said, Got your nipples!
Fuck this, I said.
The downstairs is now set to sixty-six degrees (I like even numbers, it's an OCD thing). The upstairs is slowly climbing to seventy. My fingers, toes, ears, nose, and nipples still hurt. But it will be warmer soon. That is all that matters. When Adam comes home from that Jersey job on Friday, the house will be softly toasty, but not warm enough to screw with his internal space heater. I wish I had an internal space heater. I seem to be made of cold.

Seriously don't ever develop Raynaud's Syndrome. Wearing a tight-fitting shirt of any material in cold weather during a flare-up will make you cry. Also, gloves and socks don't always help. Unless they're the expensive kind from hiking stores that are designed for Antarctic vacations, and even then it might still hurt. The biggest danger is being unable to move my bloodless frozen stiff fingers enough to turn a key in a lock or use my cell phone to call for help if I can't get someplace warm enough.
Add cerebral palsy and fibromyalgia to that, ball it all up into one big flare, and, well... I'm going to huddle under a fake-fur blanket and grumble. Maybe one of the cats will join me.