When I lived in Chicago I had a friend who wouldn’t let me complain about cold weather. If you’re gonna move to a city famous for harsh winters, he reasoned, you can’t be outraged by, well, harsh winters.
Fair enough, but does that mean I, as a Southerner, am supposed to maintain equanimity in extreme heat? Because I complain my head off under those circumstances. Course, I can probably find something to complain about when it’s 72 degrees with clear skies and moderate humidity.
I don’t think this makes me a negative person so much as an observant one. After all, a hefty chunk of life is unpleasant—I’d say about 30% on average (if you’re lucky), compared to the 25% that’s pleasant (again, if you’re lucky), leaving a remaining 45% that’s neutral. And that includes all the time you spend asleep.
So if you’re observant, and talkative on top of being observant, it stands to reason that about 3 out of every 10 things you say will be complaints about life’s many miseries. That’s just science.
Mind you, I don’t complain about cold weather nowadays because there isn’t any. From old books and movies I gather there was a time when New England, where I currently live, experienced phenomena such as snow, low temperatures, and frozen waterways for ice-skating with assorted Little Women and Laurie, too—the whole wintry shebang.
But the Decembers, Januarys, and Februarys I’ve spent in the region have been mild as can be. It hardly ever snows, for one thing. And is the ice on ponds even thick enough to support skaters anymore? Instead of just Amy falling through the ice, all four Little Women would probably sink. Laurie, too. And we might as well toss in Marmee while we’re at it.
And sure, that might sound appealing. But I for one will miss winter, for I don’t look good in shorts.
Besides, the world is supposed to get four seasons, not this perma-hot situation punctuated by apocalyptic fires, homicidal storms, and eerie May-like conditions in the middle of November. It’s weird.
Around here, the only sign that winter is on its way is that my husband, Frank, has retrieved our festive red-and-black plaid throw pillow from the closet and placed the pillow on the couch. Consider our halls decked.
After Thanksgiving we usually put up a Christmas tree, but the throw pillow might be our only concession to seasonal décor this year. In December we’ll be out of town for a longer stretch of time than usual in order to celebrate the holiday in Chicago, so the tree would be at home by itself.
We’ll be in Chicago ‘cause that’s where Frank is from. Come to think of it, I can’t recall at the moment a time when he complained about cold weather. Maybe it’s true that real Chicagoans don’t gripe about winter.
He sure makes up for it when the mercury rises, though. Heat makes him both indolent and angry, like a Southern belle dealing at the same time with a case of the vapors and an estate that’s in arrears. He spends the entire month of August in a kind of irritable swoon.
As the planet warms, my outlook for marital happiness gets dimmer with every fractional increase in global average surface temperature.
Indirect Objects 