When men talk about menopause, we all picture the same thing: the classic hot flush. A woman glowing like a kettle about to whistle, throwing off the duvet at 3am, and yelling at the fan to spin faster.
What no one tells you is that some women skip the volcano phase entirely and go full Antarctic expedition instead.
My wife, for instance, is cold. Always cold. Not “put a jumper on” cold — cryogenically preserved cold.
If there’s a thermostat within a ten-mile radius, she’ll find it and twist it until it cries for mercy.
Welcome to the Arctic Bedroom
Every night is the same. I climb into bed, ready to settle down.
She follows, armed with what I can only describe as a pair of refrigerated limbs.
Her hands — ice.
Her feet — weapons-grade frostbite delivery systems.
And where do they go? Straight onto my legs
“Your feet are freezing!” I say.
“I know,” she replies. “Warm them up for me.”
And that’s it. My night’s over.
Because once those frozen limbs make contact, my body goes into shock. I tense up, I gasp for air, and I question every life choice that led me here.
By the time I’ve thawed one foot, she’s turned around and planted her hands — those tiny frostbitten mittens — right onto my stomach.
It’s like sleeping with Elsa from Frozen.
Hot Water Bottles — A Way of Life
We don’t just use hot water bottles. We depend on them like life-support equipment.
Three a day, minimum. One for the bed, one for the sofa, and one that seems to migrate between rooms like a family pet.
I’ve even found them sunbathing in summer. She’ll sit there in July, drinking hot chocolate, wearing socks and a cardigan, with a hot water bottle tucked under her jumper.
Meanwhile, I’m sweating like a pig on a spit, praying for rain or a small indoor hurricane.
Cold Menopause: The Plot Twist No One Warned Me About
You hear all about the sweats and the flushes, but not the freezing.
Turns out, menopause can mess with your body temperature both ways — and my wife drew the short straw on the “Antarctica” setting.
Her hands and feet never seem to warm up.
So while most blokes are buying portable fans and ice packs, I’m stocking up on hot water bottles and extra blankets like we’re preparing for the next Ice Age.
A story from my shave chair
One of my old client's once told me that he can be sweating in a T-shirt while she’s under two duvets, socks, and a hoodie, whispering, “It’s freezing.”
One night, he tried to sneak the thermostat down from 25°C to 21°C.
She opened one eye and said, “Don’t.”
He swears he didn’t even hear her move — she sensed it.
Now they’ve found a truce: he gets the window cracked open a little, and she gets the heating on.
They meet somewhere in the middle — where love lives, apparently between 23 and 24 degrees.
The Truth Beneath the Blankets
Here’s the thing though — for all the moaning and the mockery, I actually admire her.
Because even though she’s freezing, even though her body’s fighting her every day, she still laughs about it.
And honestly, I’d rather sleep next to an ice queen than wake up alone in a warm bed.
So I keep quiet.
I hand her the hot water bottle, brace myself for the chill, and think, “This is what love looks like in midlife — uncomfortable, slightly damp, but still somehow perfect.”
Is your partner a hot flusher or a cold snapper?
Drop a comment or send me your story.
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