Photo courtesy of scaglifr/Flickr
Some people see a little bit of blue sky peeking through the clouds as hopeful or optimistic. Or some kind of sign that even though things are dark now, light and happiness is right around the corner.
Screw those people. I hate the blue.
A good grey, totally cloudy, stay-inside-and-read kind of day is rare. Please don’t preach to me about Bay Area fog; that shit burns off by lunchtime. The weather changes quickly here and even the stormiest days often have a brief moment of sunshine. This bothers me.
If it’s going to be sunny, it should be fucking sunny. I want to wear shorts and flip flops and go outside and wash my car until the hot asphalt and hose water smell amazing. I want to walk barefoot in the grass and open up my windows because the breeze feels so good. I want to really need the deodorant I put on that morning. I want to work on my freckles.
And when it’s grey, the weather should stay intimidating. A sky full of rainclouds is nature’s way of saying “Take today off. I’m going to do some work out here and things might get ugly.” This is my free pass to stay inside and bake things and read books and lay in my bed listening to the wind thrash the trees and think “hot damn, I’m glad I’m not riding my bike right now.” I don’t want to feel guilty for not stepping out of doors when I’ve mentally committed to a day of inactivity.
So that little blue patch isn’t heaven checking in on us, or a reminder that things aren’t as bad as they seem. It’s Mother Nature giving me the finger.