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| (What's that bright, round, glowing object?) |
It’s that time of the
season again – that time when I pick on the weather forecasters.
I just want to say, “Thank
you.” No, truly. Thank you for saying storms would develop by
noon time and that the afternoon would be full of violent thunderstorms.
I plan my day around your
forecast, avoiding the drive to the beach and the money to park. Instead, I drive to a faraway store to buy a
few more kayaking supplies (on sale, so I get the best of this misadventure). Oh, sure, the sky often looks foreboding, and
it almost rains a tiny bit on my way to the sporting goods store, but I see
more blue sky than gray sky all day.
When I return from my
shopping trip, I drop the bags on the floor, change into workout gear, and take
myself for a long, sweaty walk. I keep
an eye on the sky because, well, you know, it’s supposed to be nasty weather
this afternoon.
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| (Blue ... not gray ... sky) |
After hauling my ass
around town for almost three miles, I’ve had enough. I amble back into my driveway, and I stretch
out across the front stoop, absorbing the magnificent day it turns out to
be.
To think I almost missed
it all by planning my activities around the weather report. Again.
You’d think by now I’d have learned to trust my own weather instincts,
but I still fall for the “professional” opinions.
Oh, well. No harm, no foul. I pay all the bills, get a great sale on some
sports equipment, and manage to spend time outside, all without ever hitting
any foul weather. Thank you, weather
forecasters. No truly. Thank you.
