June F'ing Gloom

GLOOM [gloom]

NOUN 

1. murky darkness: a state of darkness or partial darkness, especially one in which shadows or poor visibility create a cheerless or dispiriting atmosphere

2. despondency: a feeling or atmosphere of despair, despondency, or misery

Every morning, as soon as I shut off my six perfectly timed alarms, I get out of bed and look out the window to check the weather. I’m no dumbass…I obviously know if it’s raining or hot or humid. But at this time of year, with the fog and the cold morning air, I can never tell how the day is going to turn out. Is that rain or just really heavy fog? Will it stay like this all day? Will it clear up? Do I need a sweater? Where’s my broken umbrella? Should I even bother dreaming of some beach time after work?

Today is the first day of summer, so imagine my dismay when I peered out into the darkness to see the now familiar morning fog swirling against the street lights. It was dark and ugly, like a scene from an Alfred Hitchcock movie. Shit. I hate June Gloom. It’s supposed to be sunny and warm, and I should be able to head straight from work to the beach and lie lazily on my Mexican blanket in the hot sun.  I actually love rainy days but I live for hot, sunny days. What I don’t like is the uncertainty of the days that start with drizzle and end with the sun finally appearing at dinnertime, when my opportunity for lying on the beach has long passed me by.

Besides the lack of Vitamin D and my resulting depressed state, there is another very important factor that contributes to my utter disgust with June Gloom. It may sound shallow or frivolous, but my wardrobe is riding on the conditions outside. I wouldn’t say I am overly concerned with being fashionable, although my sister in law recently disagreed with that. But I do like to dress appropriately for whatever I am doing and for the weather. I don’t want to be too hot or too cold; I don’t like to be caught in a downpour without my raincoat or boots—or as my grandmother used to call them, my rubbers. J (I proudly and loudly talk about my rubbers in public, and watch delightfully as people, more refined and uptight than I, look at me with disgust.) I don’t want my feet wet or my pants dragging in puddles, and I’m not very happy if, by mid afternoon, I am dripping sweat in the sweater I chose in the dark, based on a weather report warning of a chill moving into the area. Most importantly, I have a closet full of fantastic dresses and skirts that I am itching to wear, but this crap weather leaves me confused. Yeah, it is frivolous, but I don’t buy these clothes just to stare at them. 

On any given day—except during June, apparently—all I have to do is look in my closet and I can determine with a glance exactly what I am going to wear. But then this crap weather starts, and it wreaks havoc on my wardrobe. I never know what to do. For example, yesterday morning…yesterday morning sucked. I changed three times before I left the house. Three conflicting weather reports…three outfits. Okay, to be truthful, the first outfit just didn’t look right so that wardrobe change can’t really be counted. But then again, the reason it didn’t look right is because it was a summery dress and the brown boots were too wintery…so, I take that back. It was the weather’s fault after all.

Mike

What I want and need is to have a dependable and accurate meteorologist help me decide what to wear. If handsome Mike Bettes of the Weather Channel tells me it’s going to be cold or rainy, I’m going with that—not so much because I truly believe him, but because I find him very attractive and charming and I want to trust him. But all too often, somebody over at the Weather Channel, probably driven by jealousy, gives Mike inaccurate information, which he then passes on to me...causing me to stand confused and lost in front of my closet.  Poor Mike. He's so lovely. I can't rely on our local weather report: it's an absolute joke. Those clowns hardly ever get it right. They are more concerned with discussing the “Fog Monster” or the local surf report, and dreaming of one day making it big in Los Angeles, even if it’s only on the noon news.

I’m not hard to please.  Don’t tell me about the possibility of high surf or the conditions on Catalina. Quit devoting your entire segment to the most recent winner of the Backyard BBQ Contest, or focusing on the traffic at the “S” curve. The “S” curve, by the way, is simply a curve in the 101 and hardly deserves the recognition it is given by the local television personalities; I’m embarrassed for them every time they say it. I really don’t care about the surf or the ribs cooking on the grill, and the colorful satellite images might go well with my new blue dress, but they are too complicated for me. It’s a weekday morning and all I want to know is what the weather will be like between Goleta and the Santa Barbara Westside, between approximately 630 AM and 6 PM. It’s that simple. My wardrobe depends on it.



My Rubbers