Sleep won't come

It's so cold....away with this polar vortex, away!  I really tried to sleep.  I laid there for over 2 hours, but sleep never came, so here I am.  
 My body has been so cold that I can't stand to touch myself, anywhere!  Earlier, I felt like a slab of middlin' meat.  [Do y'all know what middlin' meat is?  If you've never participated in a hog killin', you probably don't.  (When I was growing up my family killed hogs, every January.  It was my job, among other things, to feed and tend to the hogs every day, year round.  When I had the bad car crash, my dad and my uncle sold all of the hogs because they thought I'd never be able to see to them again.  Oops.)  Anyway, middlin' meat is the part of the hog that gets sliced into bacon.  If you can imagine going out to the smokehouse in early February and getting the hams, shoulders and middlin' meat out of the salt box --- very cold, cold, meat.  That's how my skin feels sometimes.  At least I don't feel hickory smoked, yet.]  When I was in college, I took a public speaking class.  We had to give speeches.  The professor told us that a sure way for a person to mess up a speech was to speak on something he/she knows nothing about, and he demanded that our first speeches be "original" "how to" speeches.  I was a nervous wreck in front of a room full of people, so to get over the nervousness for my very first speech, I spoke about Hog Killin's.  I know about that, and I hope the prof. would think my speech was original.  I got an A.  I don't know if I did that good a job, or if I just scared an A out of the professor, but I got over the jitters.
Before I went to bed, I preheated the bed.  I turned the electric blanket up to "heat stroke".  When I crawled under the covers, it felt so good!  I felt like someone had wrapped me in cashmere from head to toe and slipped me into a nice, warm oven.  Mmmm, toasty.  Makes you think of Hansel and Gretel, don't it?  Nope, not me.  Made me think of W. C. Fields.  W. C. Fields didn't like children, and he once said something to the effect  that you could put even the toughest child in a slow oven all day and he'd come out fork-tender.  That's why I thought of him. What a picture to have in your head when you're trying to go to sleep.  W. C. Fields with a "brat" in the oven.  Sometimes I think my mind is out to get me.
Somewhere between the middlin' meat and W. C. Fields, sleep escaped me.  Good thing, in a way.  I remembered that my husband was going to get in that bed, and he might not like the bed being hot enough to make my bacon sizzle, so I turned the heat down.