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It was right after our honeymoon, when we set up house, that we revealed our true colors. Denny is red—not just the color of his beloved Nebraska Huskers football team, but also of molten lava, stove burners, and cinnamon candy. His body temperature runs hot at all times.

Like the Lions of my Detroit hometown, my color is blue, reminiscent of icicles, cold water, and peppermint gum. Although red and blue aren't precisely opposite each other on the color wheel, they're far enough apart to make problematic decisions regarding the perfect indoor temperature.

I hadn't seen this coming. We were married in Las Vegas. Outdoors. In July. No one, least of all Denny and me in our fancy duds, could claim it was anything but hot. Everyone agreed, from the pianist who flipped his music pages more than was necessary, to the guests fanning themselves ineffectually with their hands.

After the ceremony, Denny took me aside, held my hands, and solemnly declared, "You are my life, Mrs. Draper." Then, eyes wide with desire, he asked, "Wanna go for a swim?"

"I adore you, my beautiful husband," I breathed. "Where's my suit?"

Unlike the desert, where the temperature varies between mildly hot and volcanic, Colorado offers a wider range of degrees. It was only when we returned home that we realized this climatic difference had huge implications—not just to our household, but to our relationship.

While I was content to leave windows open to catch the summer breeze, maybe turning on the air conditioner when it hit 80 degrees, Denny wanted the maximum to be 70. Around the house we went, opening and closing windows and punching the up and down arrows on the thermostat until it smoked. A referee would have penalized us both for "illegal use of hands."

At one point, dizzy from the laps, I appealed to his natural, masculine protectiveness. "Honey?"

"Hmm?" he said distractedly.

"I'm cold."

"Hmm," he mumbled, thoughtfully passing me a coat.

To be fair, the lack of concern ran both ways.

"Deb, can I turn on the air? I'm roasting," Denny begged.

"That's because you're my hot-blooded Neanderthal," I replied, patting him lovingly on the head.

Our differences were amusing for the first few months. When one of us made an adjustment to the thermostat, the other would ask, "You're kidding, right?" and give an affectionate squeeze to the thermally challenged spouse. Over time, though, playful inquiries turned to incredulity, then irritation. With only a slight modification of words and tone our refrain changed to, "You've got to be kidding!" We accused each other of illness—him with a fever and me with lack of proper blood circulation.

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