I’m losing my grip on time. I truly am. Reality is still being firmly grasped, and I have a grip on myself like a frat boy holding onto a beer keg, but time…Time has been tricky lately.
I look at my calandar and it says it’s June, but nowhere in my brain does it feel like June. June is almost summer, right? June is nice. June is warm-ish. This is what my brain tells me.
My senses, however, are reporting back a completely different reality. According to my senses, we’re mired deeply in March somewhere. It cannot possibly be June. In the month of June it does not rain for two weeks straight, it is only 50 degrees in the dead of night, and the heater in the house can be turned off until October.
Right now, my heater is blasting warm air throughout the house, I’m wearing sweats from head to toe, and it’s been raining and windy for what feels like ages. What a rip-off! The only thing that sustains me through months of interminable Northwest winters is the promise of a beautiful, warm summer. Let me tell you, summer is two weeks away and is about as unlikely to grace us with its presence as Elvis.
You see, in the Northwest, weather is very important. When it’s raining in the winter, everyone is resigned and we don’t really think too much about it. When it’s sunny, no matter what time of year, we all haul our pale selves outside to bask in the glory of that big ball of brilliance that we see far too little of. When it’s raining and cold when it should be warm, tempers get a little hot.
I’ve been living in the Northwest for nine years and it has taught me one thing, and one thing only: Global warming is a lie. Al Gore can just come sit on my drenched deck and soak up all 50 degrees of freezing cold and then tell me our planet is doomed. It’s hard to believe him when you’re debating the value of mittens indoors in the middle of June.