...And Goes Out Like A Salt Marsh Harvest Mouse
Hard to believe it's still officially winter, especially when we in the Upper Left Hand Corner have record-shattering days like yesterday; 65 and sunny is the sort of weather we get around here in July, not early March. Of course in typical Pacific Northwest fashion, today it's wet, wet, wet, while the forecast for tomorrow is -- sunny again.
It's the sort of nature-induced schizophrenia that can drive less acclimated persons a bit bonkers. Like someone you've been dating for two or three years who just can't make a commitment, our meteorological inconsistency has been known to turn Californians, Floridian, Texans and even people from Minnesota or South Dakota into drooling, red-eyed ghouls. Part of it is probably caused by the constant sense of uncertainty, in not knowing how many layers to put on, whether to go with the Himilayan Expedition Gortex outer shell or the lighter breathable polyester, in having to decide whether to pocket the sunglasses or crook the umbrella under your arm, but always compounded by the dread Cassandra-like premonition that regardless of which choice you make it will inevitably be the wrong one.
For those of us born into these naturally bi-polar weather cycles, even this latest bout has us, if not exactly running around like turkeys in a rainstorm, beaks agape at whatever it's doing outside this minute, at least a little flummoxed. Rain we can handle. Days, weeks, occasionally even month-long drizzly deluges that leave the entire world gray and sodden and smelling vaguely of mildew even outside. But even we natives can get a little ditzy when confronted with the prospect of alternating days of rain-then-sun or worse, single days where the weather changes so drastically from one moment to the next that any attempt to dress for it results in confusion and a growing feeling of grumbling resentment that Mother Nature just won't make up her mind. Planning to walk to work today? Forget it -- too wet. Bright sunshine hurting your eyes? You know those Ray Bans were lying around here somewhere -- back in August. Tired of wearing so many layers to cover every possible contingency that you end up looking like that little kid from "A Christmas Story" who when he falls down just lays on the ground thrashing about like an upended turtle? Well, plan on it for another couple of months, kiddo.
I suppose some of the more sanguine among us are able to simply enjoy the brief moments of clement weather for what they are -- teasing glimpses beneath the folds of a drab down comforter revealing bit of tanned, shapely calf, like a burlesque queen doing a hoochy-kootchie dance on the carnival midway. There's just enough showing to pique your interest, to get the blood flowing in anticipation, but not so much that you feel satisfied that you've seen all there is to see. The frustration comes in knowing that there's always more than meets the eye, that the whole thing is just charade intended to string you along, to pull another dollar out of your pocket for a second peek in the hopes that maybe this time the feather will inadvertantly fall, the balloon will accidentally pop, revealing more than you have any right to expect.
Hiver, elle joue des jeux comme un de'colleur.
on 10:06 AM