Day 40: Nice Weather We Are Having

It’s so cliché, talking about the weather.  It seems like it is really only used as a conversation filler.  “It sure has been unseasonably warm.”  Weather: the topic of conversation on a bad date when you realize you and the man seated across from you have nothing in common.  Throat clear.  Sip water.  Silence.  “Ah, I hear it might rain this weekend.”

I usually have a certain loathing about winter in Northeast Ohio.  It is like a war: the sky doesn’t get light until O800.  Outside base camp, I have to tread lightly—a mix of dirt, ice, and snow.  Some mornings, it is so bad I have to dig myself out before I can even get clearance to drive.  Tom and I share the grunt work; our platoon has not received proper subsidies to purchase the accoutrement of a snow soldier.  Shovels and sinewy might are all we have.

Most days, the sky is battleship grey and because of the lack of sunlight, I often wonder if I will make it through. By March, I am clamoring for some R&R to offset the post traumatic stress disorder.  I raise the white flag. Eventually, the allies of spring come to my aid, and the enemy retreats.  I know it will return, however; we can never truly win the battle.

This winter, I must admit, has been a winter like none other.   I have shoveled very little; it has not really been bitter cold; and on very few occasions, has the wind taken my breath away.   Jack Frost has not sent in the heavy artillery, at least not yet.  He still has time to rally his commanders and blast us.

Even though it is cliché, if I wasn’t married, I  would probably be inclined to accept a date with someone I did not find interesting just to talk about the weather.   I would put on a black skirt, black boots, and a pretty top.  I would dress as if I wanted to impress him, knowing that all I really wanted was a free meal and a chance to get to the conversation filler.  Before the main course arrived, we would realize that we had nothing in common.  After the appropriate amount of awkward silence, I would take a sip of my water and coyly say: “Nice weather we are having.”

“Odd weather, though,” he would say.  And off we would be–weather patterns, global warming, the impending apocalypse (as predicted by the Mayans.).  It would be fun, and I would for a split second contemplate a second date.

But you can only talk about weather for so long.

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