Yesterday was 78%. I ran in shorts and a T-shirt, a balmy breeze blowing through my hair.
All day the city sang with spring weather, sidewalks filled with the sunny and cheerful.
It was as though all problems were placed on hold.
My doormen, like couriers in blue all said…enjoy today, because tomorrow it’s gonna drop.
Oh some on, I said, don’t believe everything you read.
No, no, it’s gonna be 45 and raining.
Yeah, Yeah, Yeah.
I happily went to bed in boxers, every window in the house open, basking in a delightful cross-current, as if I were sleeping on a yacht.
When I woke up, I was on the rocks, like a frozen margarita. If a seal was asleep next to me, I wouldn’t have been surprised.
I jumped up throwing on my robe that’s much too big tripping over its length.
Remember the Little Rascals episode when Spanky and Scottie shrink in clothes that belonged to Jackie Gleason? That’s what I looked like slamming windows as though the Indians were coming.
Winter is back, a bad joke when you see the daffodils doing the hula having no choice but to brave it out. There wasn’t a squirrel or bird in sight when yesterday it was like Mardi Gras.
As I passed my doorman wearing long johns, sweats, two long sleeved shirts, a turtleneck and hoodie beneath my Barbour with my Steve McQueen watch cap hands buried in my pockets because I’ve once again misplaced my gloves, he, bundled in his regulation navy peacoat, had the grace not to say…
see, I told you so.