As I sit here writing, it is 44 degrees fahrenheit. It’s also February 4th, people. In New England.
In NORMAL winters, we’d be hunkered down in an effort to keep from turning to pink blocks of ice right about now.
The furnace would be cycling on almost constantly (and I’d be stressing about the gas bill).
There would be frostbite advisories on the news and in the crawl across the Weather Channel.
Notices would be sent home from school telling parents not to allow their children to wait for the bus for more than a few minutes, because more than a few minutes in the negative temperatures would surely result in damage to little noses, lips and earlobes.
Many minivans would be seen idling at bus stops, loaded to near-bursting with schoolchildren, acting as heated shelters while the occupants waited for the bus.
We would hit the garage door button in the morning and wonder whether the door would respond, or if it had frozen itself to the driveway overnight.
We would all be dressed in layers – thick socks, flannel-lined jeans, tee shirts under long sleeves under polarfleece. Getting ready to go out would involve boots and mittens and hats and scarves and plenty of Blistex on lips and the tender underside of noses.
But it’s 44 degrees out right now. Nope – check that – it just climbed to 45. It feels wrong. For as much as I hate winter in general and am loving the mild weather, I can’t help but feel something akin to dread. Will there be another ‘shoe’ to drop? Will we be buried in snow in March? I find the whole phenomenon slightly disarming, disturbing.
I’m thinking the “global warming” people are right.