Today I was reminded that Boston’s Summer humidity can be even more pompous and unapologetic than a New England Patriots fan. Tyrannically overbearing. Blatantly obnoxious. Enough to curl your split-ends within 10-seconds of acquaintance…
Sweat? You bet. I was sweating in the shower, wondering: “What’s the point?”
Funny thing about that oppressive, chowder-thick, fat fingered stranglehold…despite every meteorological crystal ball screaming for an Arc-worthy deluge, Beantown’s sky never relented. It turned out to be a gorgeous evening.
Boston’s weather is as calculatedly unpredictable as she is overtly arrogant. Just ask anyone in Suffolk County who consulted the Ol’ Almanac last November: “Winter will be much colder than normal, with near-normal precipitation and below-normal snowfall.”
Right.
I’ve been all over this Earth. Most weather patterns and people are…comfortably predictable. Some unabashedly violent, yes – but predictable. It’s nice. You know what you’re going to get. Good, bad…ugly.
Here? It’s different. Always has been.
Like those who cling to this granite, Mother nature never tips her hand in the Northeast. There’s a “front” – so to speak. A front that doesn’t necessarity foreshadow the day’s character; a front that certainly doesn’t define individual character.
Obnoxious. Overbearing. Pompous.
That may be how it begins. Stick around long enough, and I’m sure you’ll be pleasantly surprised at what lies on the other side of the front.
