Man, I have really got to start watching the weather. Or looking up the forecast online, or something. Jeez.
You see, I’m typically a ‘no coat’ kind of guy. I feel like I’ve explained this in detail around here somewhere before, but suffice to say that my aversion to jackets and jacket-like apparel boils down to two points:
Honestly, it’s really the second one that gets me worse. Sure, sure, the first one is relevant, too — I must be one of those fiery, hot-blooded muchachos you hear so much about.
(And really, ladies, wouldn’t that explain an awful lot?
Wha? No? Well, fine. Poop on you, then. I can pretend I’m a hot-blooded muchacho if I want to. Harrumph.)
But it’s the inconvenience of wearing a coat that really puts me out. Honestly, what else in your life would you put up with getting so little use out of, compared to the amount of time and effort you spend not using it? It’s like having to strap your belt around your neck all morning, before you’re allowed to use it to hold your pants up. Or walking around all day with a condom taped to your forehead, before you can use it for the twelve seconds you’re gonna need it. Or women walking around with bags crammed full of makeup, in case there’s a five-minute period during the day when they might want it. Or… oh. Right. Yeah, never mind that last one. I forget that people really do that. Wow.
(Oh, and never mind that ‘twelve seconds’ thing up there, either. Surely you must realize that doesn’t apply to a fiery muchacho like myself. No, no.
No, senoritas, I would be at least twenty seconds in the lovers’ game, before tuckering out and needing a siesta. At least. Carumba.)
(Okay, that’s just about enough of the muchacho thing, I think. I’m starting to creep myself out. Plus, I don’t know any other Spanish words except ‘gordita’, and I don’t even wanna think about how I’d try to work that one in there. Carumba, indeed.)
So, where the hell was I? Oh, right — coats. Sorry, got off track there.
So, coats. Not a fan, in general. Too little bang for the buckola, and I tend to not really feel chilly in the first place until the mercury dips below about forty or so. As long as we’re just talking about a trip to work and back, of course, and maybe out for a quick lunch. Certainly, with enough exposure, even that kind of temperature will get to me sooner or later. I’m not gonna strip down to my boxers and dance the watusi in the middle of my street in forty-degree weather, or anything like that.
(Not again, anyway. That did get a bit nipply, after a while. Plus, now there are the restraining orders to deal with. Meh.)
But under normal circumstances, I just don’t think a coat is terribly necessary. Under normal circumstances. Reasonable conditions, like say, on the good side of fourteen degrees.
Which it wasn’t today. Not even close.
Only I didn’t know, becuase I didn’t check the weather this morning. I simply figured it’d be about like it was yesterday — twenties, maybe thirties. Or the day before — same thing, with a little snow. Or the day before that — twenties, maybe thirties. Or the day before that — and guess what it was like then, eh?
I think you can see how I could have been lulled into a sense of complacency here. This is New England — it’s only rarely going to be above forty between — oh, I don’t know — August and April every year. But it’s also not often really, really cold, either — because when it’s truly frigid out, then it can’t snow. And there’s nothing the skies in New England love to do more than shit twelve pounds of snow per square inch of earth beneath them, to make life more ‘interesting’ for those of us here on the ground. So you can pretty well expect a certain ‘twenties, maybe thirties’ type of day around here, most of the time.
But, again, not today, apparently. Today, the temperature was six at one point, officially.
That’s right, six. Oh-six. Zero zero zero six. Point zero. That’s just damned unreasonable cold, people. There’s no way you should expect that kind of cold; I can’t even see how those meterologists coule predict it. Honestly, do you know how often you’d be wrong — dead fucking wrong — if you walked around, telling people that it would be six degrees tomorrow? Assuming you’re not actually living in the Arctic frigging Circle, that is. Pretty much always, is how often. Six is just stupid cold. There’s no point. It helps nobody. Stupid.
Of course, speaking of ‘stupid‘, then there’s the guy who didn’t check the weather, and left the house today with no coat. Like he does almost every day, but — dammit! — every day isn’t six fricking degrees when you walk out into it. Every day doesn’t freeze your eyelids shut and turn your fingers into icicles and *schhhhhhlurp* your testicles up near your lungs, looking for body heat. I’m a stubborn little bastard, but if you tell me it’s fricking six, then yeah, I’ll wear a coat. Maybe even mittens. That’s cold shit.
Only, nobody did tell me. And luckily, all I had to do was get to the car and back today. I can’t even imagine traipsing around for lunch, or getting out to pump gas, or walking the dog today. I think the dog would even understand:
‘Bitch, it’s six. You don’t wanna be out there, either. You can piss tomorrow. Now go lie down or something.‘
And maybe it’s getting better; I don’t know. I see on Yahoo — now that I’m checking the damned weather — that it got all the way up to sixteen today at one point. Woo fuckin’ hoo, people. That’s sad, when you’re just happy to be out of single damned digits. Charlie no likey.
But maybe that’ll lead to a warming trend, or a high pressure isobar, or whatever those meteorolo-weenies are always on about that heatas things up. Hell, I’d take thirty right now, even with a chilly New England wind. It still beats the freezy pants off of six, fer chrisakes.
And hell, if this keeps up, I might have to go find my coat. Damn. That’s just wrong.Permalink | 7 Comments