I Wish I Could Hug 60 Degrees

I suppose I could hug the thermometer, but that'd be awkward. So I'll just have to settle for expressing verbal affection for a reading of 60 degrees on the thermometer this morning.

Sixty degrees means I can have my coffee hot this morning, instead of iced. I really prefer coffee hot, but there was no way I was going anywhere near a steaming beverage for the past week, when the temperature inside the house never got below 88 degrees. Downstairs, that is. Upstairs, it never got below 90. So. No hot anything, then. Except me. I was steaming, myself.

Sixty degrees means we only had our window fan on last night, instead of our window fan, a standing oscillating fan, and the exhaust fan in the hall window outside our bedroom, the combination of which is reminiscent of a wind tunnel and leaves my ears ringing in the morning.

Sixty degrees means Cubby slept in a shirt last night, instead of just his skivvies. Or diaper, in his case.

Sixty degrees means we all actually slept, as opposed to flipping around sweatily in our beds, miserably wishing we could be sleeping or that morning would just come already and end this farce.

Sixty degrees means the dogs aren't panting and are feeling frisky enough to play when they're let out of their pen in the morning.

Sixty degrees means the butter will be more like butter, and less like liquefied fat.

Sixty degrees means happiness. For me, anyway.