Today it was startlingly warm outside. People were walking around in packs, lunching on park benches, playing tournament-style chess and window shopping.
The thought that you could lunch outside in New York in January is unbelievable. I'm reminded of something I planned on writing last winter, when it was insanely warm through December. One morning, I left my building and I walked into a hazy flurry.
'Mosquitoes!' I shuddered, or rather, those blurry bugs that aren't quite mosquitoes but may as well be, that hang out in swarms.
But it wasn't mosquitoes, it was snow. How can it be that mosquitoes and snow can occupy the same space in my head? It's just another example of how, as Mark would say, 'We're completely fucked.'
Tomorrow is supposed to be a little cooler and later this week, cooler still. There are lcd screens showing the news in the elevators at work, and on the short trip people invariably talk about the weather. What it's going to be, how warm it is, what on earth to wear.
When I was growing up, I never thought something as boring as the weather would be such big news, or that we'd talk about it all the time. But here we are.
Winters in Massachusetts involved praying for snow days, trudging down the icy street to wait for the yellow bus in semi-darkness, and scampering from the pool before your hair froze. It was New England, and such suffering was accepted. It's what New Englanders do.
Now things are so utterly different. For my trip to Aspen next week, I'll have to check the forecast. Will I bring my puffy coat, or short-sleeved shirts?
Photo by myself in Union Square.