10/28/09 12:46 PST
Currently, I’m on a flight from San Diego to Madison (yes, voluntarily), when it suddenly occured to me, “what would a trip back home be without a hyperbolic weather rant?”
I predict this might be the worst one yet. I believe this because yesterday, in San Diego, the afternoon’s high was 67 degrees. If that same scenario occurred last year, I would have had no choice but to sun bath in my speedo, likely for all hours while there was still visible daylight.
This year? As ashamed as I am to admit, I had the nerve to complain about the “frigid air” to more more than one person. I could actually feel the 2008 Zach Davis punch the 2009 Zach Davis right in the gut. Thankfully 2008 ZD hits like a girl.
11/02/09 17:05 PST
Yes, I use military time, even though I’ve never fired a weapon.
(Quick side tangent: there are two days I hate more than any other every year. 1) Daylight Savings – the “turn the clock back” variety. I’d gladly trade not having night time creeping up on my lunch for that extra hour at the bar. 2) Sweetest Day. This will be the subject of a future post)
I was accurate in my description of having gone soft. I think the coldest temperature I was exposed to was in the high 40s, which for that time of the year, at night, is rather balmy. I had on average 2.5 more layers on than the average Wisconsonian at any given moment. At one point I was wearing a t-shirt, fleece, light weight jacket, gloves, and ski cap while some kid passed me wearing gym shorts. I’m not sure which of the two of us had a greater right to laughter.
In terms of weather standards, I’ve turned into the MTV, hyper-spoiled, 16 year old girl who throws a tantrum because her dad got Talib Kwali to perform at her party instead of Jay-Z. “BUT DAAAADDY, I WANTED 73 DEGREES!” At least I can see I have a problem.
With that said, the weather didn’t quite reach the point of “frozen frown face” (when it’s so frigid that frowning isn’t a choice, but an involuntary reaction). My Midwest weather hatred is diminished as a result. There were actually points where the brisk air, wet leaves blanketing lawns, and overcast conditions had charm. I could finally add myself to the cliche list of, “missing the seasons.”
However, 48 hours of sub 55 degree weather is approximately all it takes to satiate my fall hunger. I imagine winter is probably closer to a day and half. All recent memory of the spring leads to images of torrential downpours, budding tulips getting murdered in a blizzard, with the rare temperate, tolerable day.
When the bleakness of winter and early spring finally gives way to the first 70 degree, sunny day, the female population seems to migrate north from ASU (skirt day), birds unthaw, sing and dance, kids laughter is not only abundant but also tolerable. Surviving a Midwest winter is akin to Pleasantville discovering color.
Living in San Diego, I don’t get seasons. “Seasons” range from pretty nice to quite nice to “I can’t tell if I’m in or outside”. The only way to tell which area of the calendar you’re on is to notice which sports are on Sportscenter. Time really seems to stand still. That’s why there’s a disproportionate amount of 35 year old guys who still think they’re 21. They just lost track of time.
So are those of us living in a season-less region the ones who are missing out? No, of course not. That’s borderline insane. A three day trip back home was enough for me to both enjoy and grow tired of the fall. Seasons are best used like any seasoning. Try putting too much salt, pepper, thyme, rosemary, or garlic in a dish and you’ve ruined the dish (okay, maybe not garlic). The amount of seasoning I received this weekend was a delectable dish.
Those who say they can’t live without the seasons are basically saying that they prefer being indoors. For those who like being on the other side of the front door, my advice is as follows: live in the vacation and visit the seasons.
(An ironic twist of fate update – In the midst of boasting the perfection that is San Diego’s weather, my flight was rerouted to a Ontario, CA. Why? Because of poor conditions at San Diego’s airport. Sorry, flight 0939. I shoulder full responsibility for this one.)