I’m all wired up these days. Warm as toast. Comfy as a bug in a rug. Engulfed in electricity. Maybe I should explain.
You know those electric blankets? The ones that you can use for potato-ing on the couch or napping on the La-Z-Boy or just wrapping yourself up like a crisp meat burrito and rolling around on the floor? I got one of those for Christmas from the better half and the rotten kids, who always are very thoughtful and generous but now they keep stealing my electric blanket like a bunch of common thieves. I’m seriously considering having all three of them arrested.
My lovely soft red and fleece electronified blanket, when I can wrench it from the thieving hands of the family criminals, has quickly become part of my regular OCD repertoire. I want to carry that thing everywhere – when I’m in the house at least – and I’m considering expanding my warm blanket comfort zone to include the car, and, well, everywhere else. Everywhere else that has somewhere to plug into.
I can understand why Linus always carries his blanket around. And his isn’t even electric. Because there’s nothing quite being enveloped in a warm electrical current whenever possible. It’s like a hug. And who doesn’t need a hug almost all the time? Especially one that’s cranked up to about 25 degrees Celsius.
OK, I admit it. This isn’t my first time dealing with a warm wrap addiction involving an electromagnetic current. It’s taken me years to come to grips with the fact that I was heavily involved with an electric blanket in my teen years, well into my early 20s. Everybody knows those formative years are a fragile time in anyone’s perilous life journey, and yes, I went to the dark side. Well, more to the point, the warm side. I mean, who knows the long term effects of wrapping yourself in a cocoon of electrical current, not to mention applying high levels of heat to your body parts on a regular basis. It could well have long term health and social effects like always being pathologically chilly without your blanket, or accidentally acquiring third degree burns in places you don’t want to be burned. Or, heaven forbid, if enough heat and electricity consistently radiates to your brain area, you could even run the risk of becoming a serial napper, a 14-hour per night sleeper, or even a freelance writer.
But back when I was just a skinny pup with no meat on my bones, I would come home late at night as usual, crank my blanket up to about 8.5 on the heat dial and go downstairs to watch Fernwood Tonight with Dad on the old RCA idiot box. By the time I was ready for bed, the bed was ready for me. I would crawl in that heat sack, sigh a contented ‘all-is-right-with-the-world’ sigh, and proceed to fry like a human-sized piece of bacon. But no worries, I was asleep within about 35 seconds, already dreaming about roaring through the halls of Lindsay Thurber Comprehensive High School on my Honda 90 Sport motorbike.
I finally managed to kick the E.B.A. (electric blanket addiction) once I got married (add “heat” joke here) – but now, due to the innocent but misguided best intentions of my loved ones, pandora’s blanket has been plugged in once again. It’s getting difficult to type at my desk, climb the stairs, eat supper, etc. all wrapped in all this warm and fuzzy electricity.
Lately I’ve heard the family is planning an intervention. But between you and me? I think they just want to steal my blankie.
Harley Hay is a local freelance writer, award-winning author, filmaker and musician. His column appears on Saturdays in the Advocate