Trapped In A Closet
No, not like R. Kelly . . . .
We here at Metblogs have adopted a policy to only discuss the weather when its news – more than merely discussing the fact that another day has arrived and it does, indeed, have weather, as all days do.
So I’m making the weather a story. And linking it to another story. Now that I’ve laid the proper foundation . . . .
You may have noticed the unseasonably warm weather lately leading you to uncommon February activities: like ditching the boots for thongs, duking it out with your neighbors for the outside tables at your favorite cafe, rolling in the grass like a puppy in any one of a number of San Francisco parks you may have forgotten existed during these long, woeful winter months.
Just yesterday, in fact, I bought some new tank tops to go with the sunny days (okay, and as retail therapy, but whatever).
Then, on the phone last night, my Mom, harbinger of unintentional downage the way mothers are, said “yes, but I hear it will be back to normal by Friday. And as mothers are, she was right. Blame Canada for the upcoming dose of February-ness headed our way. I know I will.
I mention this only as a way of warning. I notice that when the sun does come out in this fine city – especially when it comes out warm and not just bright – everyone backs down a bit. There’s less MUNI hostility. A tad more civility exercised in the course of daily city light. The whole of San Francisco rushes outside at once to take advantage of this kind of weather because we know it is short lived. We also know it is entirely undependable. Heat-waves in February, cold snaps in July. And August. And September.
San Franciscans live their lives like the school children of a science fiction story [the name of which evades me now to the point of distraction] who get one, solitary day of sun during the whole year. On their one day of sun in the story, they lock a girl in the school closet and forget about her until the sun goes away. Whether San Franciscans have read the story or not, I impute to them knowledge of it, and an undying fear of being that little girl, the one who misses the sunshine because she’s trapped in a closet. It makes us who we are and the city what it is.