Roommate Horror Stories: How To Handle Thermostat Wars with a Roommate

At first, I thought the apartment was just cold, a drafty quirk of old windows. Then I checked the thermostat, its digital display glowing a chilling 63°F. In the dead of a Canadian winter, with snow piling up outside our Vancouver walk-up, this was inhumane. I nudged it to a reasonable 68°F, my fingers stiff from the chill, and crawled into bed, piling on an extra quilt. By morning, the air was frigid again, the thermostat reset to 63°F. This sparked a silent war. Every time I adjusted the dial, my roommate, Ethan, reverted it, his dedication bordering on obsession. One night, I heard his floorboards creak at 2 a.m., followed by the soft beep of the thermostat. He’d gotten out of bed just to lower it.

I confronted him over coffee, the kitchen smelling of his burnt oatmeal. “Ethan, why’s the thermostat always at 63?” I asked, my breath nearly visible. He crossed his arms, his face tightening in defence. “I can’t sleep if it’s hot. It messes with my nervous system,” he said, as if I’d suggested cranking it to sauna levels. I scoffed. “Sixty-three isn’t cool; it’s arctic. I’m freezing!” He shrugged, unapologetic, and later that day, I found a handwritten sign taped above the thermostat: “DO NOT TOUCH, MEDICALLY NECESSARY.” I stared, dumbfounded, wondering if he’d forged a doctor’s note to justify his polar preferences.

I adapted out of necessity as I was low on cash and couldn't afford to move, waddling around in thermal socks, a hoodie, and fingerless gloves, looking as if I were prepping for a tundra expedition. My breath fogged when I exhaled, and I took to boiling water for tea just to warm my hands. I considered a space heater, dreaming of its radiant glow, but our lease banned extra appliances, citing fire risks. Meanwhile, Ethan lounged shirtless under a single blanket, his cheeks rosy, as if he were on a tropical vacation. One evening, he had the gall to complain about the electric bill, his voice dripping with confusion. “It’s through the roof,” he said. I glared, clutching my mug for warmth. “Probably all the body heat I’m generating just to survive,” I snapped, my sarcasm lost on him.

The standoff escalated. I’d sneak to the thermostat when he was out, savouring a fleeting hour of 68°F before he’d storm back and reset it, muttering about his “condition.” It was becoming increasingly frustrating that I had to take up more jobs to save up for another apartment and a better roommate. This time, I made sure to search for a roommate who prefers the ideal room temperature.