Stubbornness is what really killed the cat.


So, recently, things have gotten a little chillier here in the Chicago area. When I got home from work yesterday, it was 53ºF. One of my bedroom windows was wide open, a testament to the fact that it had been sunny and in the eighties the day before. I was too lazy to get up from my butt to shut it, so I just bundled up and sat at my desk for my daily dose of the internet.

My dad walked in a few minutes later. "It's getting colder outside," he said.

I looked up and did a shifty-eye maneuver to indicate Umm, duh.

"The temperature looks like it's gonna drop pretty significantly tonight, so I just stopped by to tell you that you can close your window if you'd like."

More eye-shifting. Did my father really just give me permission to shut my window when it got too cold in my room? Seriously?

Thankfully, my dad took the hint and left me to freeze. Fifteen minutes later, though, he was knocking on my door again. "It's getting kinda chilly in the rest of the house. Are you going to shut your window?"

This is where my stubbornness overruled my common sense. "No."

"Why not?"

"I . . . like the fresh air," I stammered.

"Well, but the other people who live here might not like being cold."

I stared at my dad, who was wearing a t-shirt and shorts. "The other people who live here could put on some pants . . ."

"Oh, I'm not cold, but your mother probably will be when she comes home."

I wasn't going to budge, especially not on behalf of my mother, who neglected to tape House last week and also threw away my second hair dryer based on faulty assumptions.

"Mmk. Just shut the door then."

Which is exactly what he did. I sat in my room, stubbornly and belligerently freezing to death for some unknown cause. I had on two shirts and a sweatshirt, a hat, pants, socks, and a humongous fuzzy blanket.

This morning? I woke up with the early signs of a cold.