I don’t think it is a secret that I *HATE* fans. I cannot tell you how much I hate them. There are several reasons for my hatred, the most prominent being the feeling of air being blown at me. I don’t even like being breathed on. Seriously. I hate that sensation of gusts of air being pushed at me so much. Not to mention that I am the lightest sleeper ever. So this so-called white noise that is supposed to block out all other noise is really just a lot of noise that stops me from sleeping or wakes me up constantly. I am always being disturbed by the whirring, the slight imperfections of the blades that cause various scrapes and squeaks. It is horrible. I am such a light sleeper that when my daughter’s fan blows against the beaded curtains in her doorway, that wakes me up too. Good thing I don’t require a lot of sleep.
Here’s the clincher. I married a fan whore. The love of my life, match to my heart, one true love, is madly in love with fans. When I met him he had a fan hooked to his headboard so it directly shot gusts of air on him while he slept. I cannot imagine a worse fate. He comes by his fan obsession honestly – when I first visited his mother’s home, it too was rife with fans of varying sizes and strengths. I have now learnt when visiting her, to bring several layers and include one very thick hoodie to protect myself against the sub-zero temperatures brought about by mass fan use. You think I am exaggerating, but I assure you I even wear the hood, gangster-like.
So here I am, at an impasse over fan use with my lovely husband. Our bedroom came with a massive ceiling fan, that I hate, and he loves. It sounds like an airport runway in our room at night. We broker deals over it nightly, especially in this heat and constantly try to trick each other with fan speed settings. Big sigh. I am NOT a fan of the fan.