I always cringe when people complain about the weather.It's the weather.
Explaining that it's going to be below freezing for the next week—while looking skyward expecting the clouds to suddenly part and the temperature to soar to 70 degrees—isn't going to change the fact that it's really damn cold. Superficially, I sympathize, but my gut reaction is to tell the victim in question to put on some clothes and deal with it.
I've recently discovered that I am one of these victims.
I do my complaining in secret. I do it by wearing the same flannel shirt three times a week, by listening to a god-awful amount of Beach House and Deerhunter, by setting my alarm fifteen minutes after I should responsibly wake up and by eating too much broccoli and cheese soup.
Yes, while I might not verbally acknowledge the weathers effect on me...I let it.
That extra hour in the bar always seems to be a logical idea, because it really is too cold outside to cross the street to my car. And why yes, I will take another PBR—or maybe a whiskey drink? After all, it's cold, and that trace of snow on the sidewalk might as well be a blizzard.
Tomorrow when I wake up (on time), I will listen to Pet Sounds, throw on a t-shirt and greet the day—I might even have a margarita instead of a whiskey drink.











