I wanted to write about politics today, but my heart really isn’t into it. I think I am having Trump/Impeachment/Syria fatigue. Just so much bad stuff that I feel like I need a break.
Which is why I would like to complain about the weather just like a very old and bitter man.
In the North Bay today, it’s almost 90 degrees. And it’s October 21st. AND I don’t live in Texas. AND have I mentioned that I hate the heat.
There is something so deep in my core, one of the truths of being that I hold on to, which tells me that when I get to late October, I get to wear sweaters because it’s cool a outside. Not hot.
There should be no more hot weather.
Yet, here I am with a full week of 90 degrees, when just two days ago it was 68.
And this is when I know that I have flipped some sort of aging switch, or crossed some line that has placed me smack dab into middle age: I want to be comfortable all the time, and if I’m not, I’m going to complain about it until I make someone as annoyed as I feel right now.
This is where I am now; It’s hot and someone listen to me!
I guess it’s kind’a funny.
But when me and my friends get together, and we kid about getting older and changing, yes the random aches and pains make moments of shared anguish… But what really is the worst part is that I know feel my stupid entitled complaints are not subjectively personal, but now they objective truths!
Which they aren’t.
I just want to wear a sweater, and really, in the big picture of the universe, no one cares.
In five days I’ll be back to normal.
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