This has to be a widespread phenomenon.
When it’s stormy—or when it seems like it might be, like today—I am happiest. Balmy and windy and clouded-over, with a very damp, almost sea-like smell to the air—that’s what we’ve got going for us right now, in the Midwest in December. Crazy weather. Weather that says May/June cataclysms and the promise of an end to winter. (The winter we’ve barely begun.) It’s intoxicating. I stood at the bus stop in the dark with my hands out to either side, letting the warm syrupy gale hit me.
I’ve always loved this weather, but if I had to tie it to a period in my life it would be when I was very young, before we moved and I became so bitchy. We lived by the sea, and there was sand in everything, and you could tell how bad a storm was going to be by how close to your eyes the marina water rose when you squinted between the cracks of the docks. I know it’s poor timing for me to be waxing poetic on my childhood fondness for storms—especially seaside ones, especially hurricanes. Doubtless I’d loathe them if we ever had a really bad one dump right on us. But we only ever got the dregs or the sideswipes of storms, which let me romanticize the boiling clouds and salt-and-pine-laden air to my heart’s content.
Which, clearly, I still do. Because this weather? This is the best.