Lori Borgman: Sweating buckets while married to a hottie

Lori Borgman, Tribune News Service on Nov 4, 2025

By clicking submit, I authorize Arcamax and its affiliates to: (1) use, sell, and share my information for marketing purposes, including cross-context behavioral advertising, as described in our Privacy Policy , (2) add to information that I provide with other information like interests inferred from web page views, or data lawfully obtained from data brokers, such as past purchase or location data, or publicly available data, (3) contact me or enable others to contact me by email or other means with offers for different types of goods and services, and (4) retain my information while I am engaging with marketing messages that I receive and for a reasonable amount of time thereafter. I understand I can opt out at any time through an email that I receive, or by clicking here

I married a hottie. He loves the heat and the sun.

When the summer sun is scorching and most people hide inside to keep from flash frying, he goes outside to do yard work.

I tend toward the cool side. Some like it hot, some like it cold, and for some mysterious reason they tend to marry one another.

Our favorite pastime is playing endless rounds of tag with the thermostat. Our banter over the temperature often sounds like a poker game. He says, “I’ll see your 68 and raise you six.”

“That’s 74,” I say. “I can’t do 74. I’m out.” And I will be out — passed out cold once the oppressive heat kicks in.

When summer heat arrived full force this year, I had to hide his flannel-lined jeans, affectionately known as his stuffed scarecrow pants. He spent the bulk of summer outside and I spent the bulk of summer fanning myself in front of the freezer door.

After intense negotiations, we agreed on warmer temps inside the house during the daytime and lowering the thermostat at night. It’s a momentary truce in our cold war.

That said, I remain concerned when he is outside in blistering heat. When the sun hits the front porch, he goes out, sits in a wicker chair and reads. You know what happens when you read in the warm sun, right? You fall asleep. Your head drops, whatever you are reading falls from your hands and your upper body slumps.

I tell him I am concerned about this because we have numerous runners, walkers and cars passing by our house.

He says I don’t need to be concerned; there is a second chair if someone would like to join him.

My concern is that if people see a man of a certain age slumped in a chair, they could think there is a medical emergency and call 911. Then a fire truck and ambulance will roar up to the house with sirens screaming. I’ll run outside to see what is happening, see paramedics jerking him out of the wicker chair, then keel over from shock.

“Is that what you want?” I ask.

He says he can’t hear me. He is sitting in a patch of sunlight pretending to be asleep.

And now, fall has arrived, temperatures are dropping, the furnace is kicking in and winter is within sight.

The flannel lined jeans have reappeared. I ask if the plaid flannel shirts are close behind. He says never question a man in plaid as he always has solid points.

We’re ready for whatever winter brings, my stuffed scarecrow and me.