Steak Knives

It's finally getting chilly. The heat in our bedroom is slow to warm, which means when we first head to bed, Jon and I are usually snuggled up like a pair of earthworms. By midnight, the covers are gone and we're both dangling off opposite sides of the bed with a white sheet desert between us.

Before that happens, I am in danger of serious scarring from Jon's toenails. Which I also like to call his steak knives.

As in: "Ow, watch the steak knives!" [Uttered verbatim last night.]

The steak knives are so sharp I fear waking with permanent, unsightly gouges on my calves, should Jon have a particularly violent karate nightmare. I'm also considering giving up shaving the bottom half of my legs altogether, as it no longer appears necessary. That one's a plus.

Anticipating the long, cold winters here, I've now added rubber legwarmers to my Christmas list.

This morning Jon told me:

I grow them out as a weapon. They are a form of protection.

I have no words.