I Love the ’50s

Yesterday, I was filled with an unusual amount of vim and vigor. For a few fleeting seconds, bursts of hopefulness replaced my usual despondency. What gives?

The weather, oddly enough. It must be the quarter century of N.W. in me, but I completely thrive on rain, gray skies and temperatures in the 50s. (It’s also why I’m excited to visit China in the fall [plus, it’ll be hairy crab season]. Every substantial vacation I’ve ever taken has been near the equator in the middle of summer. Why can’t all of my favorite S.E. Asian cities change latitude?) I was even able to use my awesome Martha Stewart wood grain duvet that I bought myself for my birthday and haven’t had much occasion for since late July. Of course, everyone complains about how cold it is. 59 degrees=not cold.

This morning my normal 35 minute commute stretched to 65 minutes, my iPod battery went into the red zone (I had a total Sophie’s choice—do I keep playing music to make the subway more bearable or do I turn it off and try to converse so I’ll have something to listen to besides bad top 40 at the gym later? I turned it off because I'm all about foresight and eschewing instant gratification), my F train turned into a G, so I had to get off. Then my A train turned into an F and I had to get off that one too. Eventually, a normal C showed up. At least during the patience-trying kerfuffle I got to see two grown men, a few inches from me get into a shoving and name-calling match. But my point is that I was irked but not livid or defeated because I wasn’t coated in sweat. The 50s keep you sane.

Unfortunately, the invigorating weather is a fluke. In fact, yesterday was the coldest August day since 1911. It’s too bad that plenty of humidity and scorching temperatures are certain to be in the near future. The heat usually holds on until the end of September. I hope I can hold on that long or I might be forced into shoving and name-calling, myself.