I’m not a slave to the weather. Frankly, I don’t spend a whole lot of time thinking about it. I rarely check it online. At the end of the 11 o’clock news, when the time comes for the weather report, I use the opportunity for my last bathroom break before dozing off. There’s nothing I can do about it, anyway. So, why bother? If I want to know what the weather’s like, I’ll just go all 1972 and stick a body part out the front door or open up the kitchen window. It’s an effective method and it gives me all the information I need to be prepared for what’s in store once I venture out into the wilds of Bergen County, New Jersey. Being a denizen of the Northeastern United States, simply remembering what month we are in also provides me with at least a vague notion of which, if any, outergarment I will likely need on any given day — October through March is normally heavy coat weather.
I usually get restless for warmer temperatures round about mid-March. I don’t know if it’s a sign of aging, or what, but this year I find myself really longing for Spring. As in REALLY LONGING for it. Today I uncharacteristically took a peek at the 5-day forecast, which did nothing to lighten my mood. When the 5-day forecast proved less than encouraging, I took a chance and brought up the 10-day forecast. Because, you know, I’m an optimist! I am disheartened to report that there isn’t a temperature forecasted to be above 50 degrees (Fahrenheit — this is the U.S., people!) for at least 9 days. Yep. Nine whole days from now it looks like we can expect to have a 51 degree day. It will be April by then, people! APRIL!
I seem to be awaiting Spring in a somewhat impatient manner. It may have something to do with the fact that at the end of last Summer I acquired a really cute pair of flats at quite a bargain price, but I only got to wear them once. Because, as many of you may be aware, we had a run of bad weather this Autumn. What began with Hurricane Sandy just simply refuses to end. REFUSES. It’s been so cold that I’ve been thinking about trading in the cat for a pet penguin.
I’m tired of trudging along in my, “once trendy, but has now seen better days!”, black Land’s End Thinsulate Stadium Coat. I’m sick of having hat head. And the wide selection of scarves and gloves that I’m normally happy to accessorize with? They’ve lost their luster — even the leopard print infinity scarf that I “borrowed” from my daughter has, alas, lost it’s ability to make me feel spiffy. And the gray cashmere hat that can be relied upon to make me feel a little like Mary Tyler Moore when I wear it? It’s plum lost it’s ability to make me feel like “I might just make it, after all!”
I want to trot out my baseball cap (NY Mets, of course!), my capris, and FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, my flip-flops. I want my step to feel a little lighter. I want a reason to get a pedicure. I want to put my smelly UGGS away. I want to bid “Hasta Luego” to my sweaters.
When my cashmere sweaters cease to lift my mood, I know that Winter has outlasted its usefulness. It’s a sure sign that Spring needs springing. A sure sign. Because I LOVE my cashmere sweaters. Lately, every time I put one on, I feel something that I would describe as mild resentment and, truthfully, there’s even been a hint of bitterness as their soft comfy folds snag on my dry, weatherbeaten skin.
Normally, when I don my cashmere, I say a silent “thank you” to all the goats who lost their fur, thus making the usual pleasurable experience of wearing them possible for me — not enjoying my sweaters feels like a betrayal — to the goats. And, really, who needs goat guilt? Not me. I’ve got more than enough to feel guilty about. I lost sleep the other night because I realized — too late! — that I had accidentally forgotten to recycle the tuna fish cans. I think that’s enough guilt for one normal-sized woman, don’t you? I don’t think we need to add goats to the mix.
I should probably lay off watching pre-season baseball as well — or at least the beginning of the games, the part where they insist on informing me — the woman still shivering in New Jersey! — how sunny and balmy it is down in Port St. Lucie, Florida. I can’t help but feel like Keith Hernandez and the boys are massaging salt into my already open wound. I try to tell myself that they’re not trying to be terrible people. The rational me knows this. The irrational me? What can I say? She gets a little grumpy when she’s cold.
There’s probably no reason for concern. I don’t think I can hold a grudge against Keith Hernandez forever. Presently, however, I want to slap a fake mustache on his upper lip and tell him that he looked much better with the ‘stache! Sexier, even. I know. That’s mean. So is telling me it’s 78 degrees and HUMID in Florida while I am wrapped in a bathrobe and two afghans TRYING to ENJOY the game. I’m sure I’ll get over it. I’m positive that we’ll be able to put this episode behind us, Keith and I, — just as soon as I have enjoyed at least one 50 degree day. Just one, for pity’s sake. I’m just asking for ONE!
I know it’s coming soon — this elusive thing called Spring. It just cannot be soon enough for me this year. Is it just me? Or does anyone else feel the same way?