My wife was pretty sick a couple weeks back. Among other problems, she was rather concerned about the fever she had been running for about a day. So she popped our old thermometer in her mouth. After the obligatory lengthy waiting period, she pulled it out and read 106.5 degrees. We both agreed that if her temperature was that high, she'd at least be in a slight sweat. After all, it was 85 degrees outside that afternoon.
Then she remembered an old trick to restore some semblance of accuracy in the device. Unfortunately, while she was shaking down the mercury, she cracked the thermometer against the sink and the aforementioned mercury spewed everywhere.
Apart from concerns of poisoning, which were quickly allayed, we had to get a new temperature gauge. Like the dutiful husband I am (I can hear the chuckles all the way from California), I ran out to the pharmacy. As it turned out, the cheapest thermometer was one of those digital puppies, so I plunked down my three bucks and brought the goods home.
A short time later, my wife popped the thing in her mouth, and out came the verdict: 99.6 degrees. A bit high, but certainly manageable. Then she suggested I check my temperature to see if I was getting sick, too.
I didn't warn her, and instead reset the display and rammed the little metal bit under my tongue.
When the readout said "96.4", she just about flipped.
"That can't be right! Try it again!" she cried, with more than a little concern in her voice. I tried to reassure her that my normal temperature is significantly lower than 98.6, but she would have none of it.
A minute later, the same number appeared.
"I knew it! You're such a mean bastard that you've become an honest to goodness lizard. Like that Gecko guy!"
How do you respond to this sort of attack? Now, I realized that my wife was somewhat feverish and certainly inconvenienced by a head and chest cold. Not pleasant, especially when summer has already arrived in Florida. She wanted to be at the beach, where any sensible person was at the time. She had no desire to be sitting at home on her days off, sick as a dog.
But there she was, and spewing insults at my biology to boot.
"Yeah, my doctor told me I should go into management at GM or AT&T," I said with a laugh. "But you know me and suits. Nothing doing."
She was still concerned.
"Okay, listen," I said. "Remember back when I lived in New Mexico?"
"Oh, like you don't blame all your other personal problems on Clovis."
"Hey, you've been there."
"That's true. I'm still scarred, and I was only there a couple days."
I continued, undeterred by the tangent.
"When I lived in New Mexico, I took allergy shots every couple of weeks. For some reason, the doctor's assistant always took my temperature before injecting the serum. She kinda weirded out the first time she saw my numbers. I mean, very few people actually have a 98.6 "normal" temperature. But not many folks are a couple degrees low. The thing is, though, my furnace is one of those energy efficient models. Either that, or I don't have enough insulation."
"It's your dad," she said. "He's got that turtle head thing going on. There had to have been some weird backwoods interbreeding back in your family's north Georgia history."
"It's all possible," I said, pleased that she had recovered her humor, sort of.
"Still, 96.4 isn't normal. Check your temperature tomorrow, just to be sure."
So I did. And the result was exactly what I thought it would be: 96.4 degrees. She had to accept facts.
"So does this mean our children will be reptiles, too?"
"Just think, Barbara, our kids can claim to be direct descendants of dinosaurs. They'll be the hit of their kindergarten classrooms."
"Oh, that's just what I need," she said. "Some teacher bothering me about another of your wild stories. And anyway, who says I'm going to let you warp any of my possible future children?"
But that's a whole other argument.
Jon Worley cohabitates with his wife in St. Petersburg, Florida. He checked his temperature today: 97.6. He must have that bug that's been going around.