Stormy Weather

I love weather.  I'm not one of these people who obsessively watches the Weather Channel to track cold fronts or pores over satellite photos to determine the precise moment the next storm might arrive.  The most I do is watch a snippet of the forecast on Channel 7 while I do sit-ups in the morning, but just as often I  leave the day to chance, my footwear and outerwear choices governed only by the one-line prediction in the corner of the front page of the Times. 

More often than not, I forget to bring an umbrella, even when a monsoon is predicted.  I'm the one you see squinting through the downpour, my hair plastered to my face, my pants soaked up to the thighs, while everyone else scurries about under stadium umbrellas the size of parachutes, fighting against the wind and refusing to admit defeat even when they're left with a twisted bouquet of aluminum and nylon.  And yet, I'm the one with the manic grin on my face.  There's just something brilliant about that whole scene, people hunching against the elements and trying to go about their business while being all blown about and soaked to the bone. 

The same goes for a snowy day -- in fact, snow is even better because it's inherently picturesque.  Before the snowbanks turn to sludge and every corner is a knee-deep puddle, the sidewalks are coated in a swan's down layer that squeaks under your boots as the free-falling flakes brush your face and collect in your hair.  There's nothing like Central Park in a snowstorm, the trees crackling with ice, the footpaths camoflaged but for the lampposts standing at attention in the hush of white.

I don't think I could handle living in a place with temperate, sunny weather year-round.  Aside from the lack of crisp fall days, which would be enough to keep me away, I would miss the moods evoked by seasons and storms.  Is there anything better than a rainy Sunday, when you have no obligations and you can curl up on the couch with a book and the dog, listening to the spatter of the drops against the windows?  How do you find excuses for naps or hot chocolate or fuzzy slippers when it's always 75 degrees and sunny out?  And, on the flip side, how do you truly appreciate the warm days -- do you still remember to tilt your face into the light and flop down on the grass to let the balmy air pass over you?

In college, the first warm day of the year -- meaning the first day over 45 degrees -- always turned into a campus-wide beach party, without the sand or the volleyball net; the Diag would be awash in co-eds (suddenly, it appears that I went to college in the 50s -- the hell?), everyone sunning themselves and socializing and shedding their layers of coats and scarves in favor of tank tops and cut-offs.  The entire school was infused with newfound joy and a certain languorousness, in contrast to the hurried purposiveness of the long winter.  It always made me wonder whether students in Florida or California ever went to class -- how did they summon the motivation to spend ten hours at a stretch in a dusty library or an echoing lecture hall when there was all that great weather to be experienced?  But of course, when it's great weather all the time, it has less of an effect on your mental state; you can operate entirely independently of the barometer and thermometer.  Which ties into my point above -- I don't know how I'd indulge my inner brooding writer or reflective diarist or, let's face it, crappy TV addict without regular atmospheric downpours to assuage whatever guilt I would otherwise have if I were missing a gorgeous day to be inside.

I will say that, of all meteorological phenomena, I could do without the blazing hot summers.  I'm ok up to about 85 degrees, and then it's just downright unpleasant.  I don't like sweating all that much, unless I'm exercising, and I really don't like being around other sweaty people.  The subway on a hot, humid day is a new level of hell that should be reserved for, I don't know, Sanjaya.  Put him down on the C train platform on a 98-degree day with a nice complement of urine-soaked bums, and see how long it takes him to promise that he'll never sing again. 

If this whole global warming thing continues, I may have to move out west, out to the Pacific Northwest, where summers are mild but there are still four distinct seasons.  And I would have more than my requisite allotment of slouchy weekends, pretty snowfalls and puddle-stomping commutes.    

Comments

[magpie]

Nice. Today, one of the pianists for our school is wearing shorts. He is always rushing the season, but it is somehow heartwarming. Oh, and he looks TERRIBLE in shorts.

[Leah]

Hottest I've ever been: Lex and 59th platform in August. When I fanned the air with my map, it lapped against my face in sticky waves.

[tgr]

Oh god, are you trying to break my heart? I've lived in Southern California for a dozen years now, and I still miss the seasons. If anything, it gets stronger each year. And I don't think I'll ever leave because, let's face it, the man is more important than the weather. Right? Right? And he'll never leave L.A. (sigh)

[Lacey]

As a born and bred Oregonian, I can say with confidence that there is no where else I'd rather be and the weather here is superb! The rain can be a little dismal in the winter, but it's all worth it when March finally rolls around and everything is green and sunny and beautiful. There is about a month of really hot 100 degree weather in August, but that's when you go to the river and lie around in the cool water all day :)