Weathered

 

In the Spring and Fall, seasons in the South change not only day to day, but sometimes hour to hour. It’s not unusual to find someone sporting a sweat-wicking tank top under their Let It Snow Christmas sweater.

Wondering if I should grab my jacket when I went outside, I asked my living room meteorologist, Bill, if it was raining. He whipped out his cell phone and in seconds I knew the temperature and average rainfall in London, Alberta, and Sydney. He threw in the humidity and air quality for free, but noted that I need to sign up for updates concerning UV index and wind direction.

He was sitting beside the front door.

“Just open the door and peek outside.”

He looked at me like a newborn robin looks at mama just before she coughs up the worm.

“I’m not going to build an ark. I just want to snip some rosemary for my sauce.”

He consulted his phone.

I slipped on my jacket and strolled outside. It’s not that it was hot and dry, but the moisture in my skin evaporated immediately, giving me the jaunty air of a body with a shrunken head and dusty dirt clods  for eyes. It must have been a fetching site, because the neighbor called Emergency Services for the Kool-Aid Man.

I snipped several sprigs of rosemary and felt my way back into the house, making a mental note to add my house number to the door in Braille.

“Don’t forget to work on the gutters this week,” I quipped as I staggered past Bill’s chair.

He clicked out of his weather app and headed toward the door.

“And don’t forget your coat.”