I don’t trust weather people. “We’re looking at 4 more days of beeee-autiful weather,” they’ll claim with a cheesy grin on my local news channel. I narrow my eyes with suspicion and wait for the details of these alleged delightful days ahead.
During the pandemic, our regular weather dude worked from home and it became a little tradition in our household to spot the cat who would often sit on the desk or nearby furniture with a menacing glare. Sometimes the cat would be in the background on the back of a couch eyeing her human prey like lunch. Sometimes, the cat would walk across the screen and lounge lazily downstage center. Swishing her tail directly across the weatherman’s mouth and nose as if to say, “Silence, human,” letting us know who really runs that household.
I found out that the cat’s name is Molly and the weather man describes their relationship exactly as it appears: “I have been owned by Molly for 14 years.” He goes on, saying that Molly's most endearing quality is that she is "really mean and gets me to do whatever she wants."
Meteorologist Bill Martin goes on to say that there won’t be a cloud in sight, minimal wind, with highs around 65 and lows never dipping below the 50 degree mark. I let out a groan of disgust and Molly senses my repulsion and immediately backs me up with her response. She turns toward Bill and does her biiiiiiiiig stretch giving the viewers a close up view of cat butt-hole, punctuating her invitation for us to get the hell out of her home. Girl, same.
To me, beautiful weather is more torrential in nature. Fifty shades of looming grey skies, billowy fog, gentle mist, or downright pouring. Atmospheric rivers? Yes. Cold, foggy, overcast day? All the time please. Warm, clear, sunny, blue sky days? Grumpy Roz cat sound.
Maybe it’s in my DNA. I’m not built to be a sun-kissed beach creature who can comfortably frolic around in sarongs and tank tops. I’m not made to glisten gently with sweat while comfortably sprawled on a sun baked patio. I will never EVER choose to sit at the outdoor table next to heat lamp. Hissing cat sound.
My genetic makeup is more potato in nature. I’m built to thrive in the cold, damp, dark shade of the earth. I’m made to survive a harsh winter on the craggy shores of Wales or Norway; draped in cozy, layered robes and scarves. Like a root vegetable, I thrive in darkness and cold, sheltered from the heat and sunlight. My ancestors likely looked like me and stood happily in the frigid winter with their untamable frizzy hair blowing in the wild winds and icy rain using phrases like, “It’s awfully mild for this time of year.”
Instead, I live in Northern California. It’s most likely to be the same temperature on the Fourth of July as it is on Christmas Day. We get two drops of rain and Bill the weather man sends out an urgent “STORM WATCH” message with two exclamation points. We have two seasons: Spring plus, and Spring lite, with a dash of week long 90+ degree weather in October.
Here, I spend most days sweating. Peri-menopause? Probably. The lacerating sphere of fire in the sky pierces my skin with its stabbing swords of heat and light almost daily, and I recoil into the shadows like a Sméagol-snake-like hybrid creature.
My husband will open the shades in our bedroom as I duck under the covers and he makes a sound known as the Pterodactyl. It’s a high pitched screeching sound and is alarmingly accurate when describing the screaming in my soul.
My poor, freezing husband who is wearing three layers of clothing and thick socks silently skulks toward the thermostat in our house, desperate to “just take the edge off the house.” I will lunge out physically, or lash out verbally to stop him. “Don’t you dare touch that fucking thermostat.” He scampers back to his blanket fort while his teeth chatter with a combo of fear and mild hypothermia.
I know many who struggle with seasonal depression when the days are shorter and the weather is rainy and grey. I have an ex-boyfriend who used one of those light therapy devices, and it genuinely worked to help him become more productive, alert, and happier during the long Philadelphia winters we endured. Meanwhile, I’m constantly turning off every overhead light possible, opening windows, turning up the A/C, and finding the darkest corner I can to burrow into to feel like the real me: A POTATO.
I do not struggle with the regular type of seasonal depression. I have reverse seasonal rage. Each year in March or April I feel the summer looming and I am filled with dread. Birds are chirping and flowers are blooming. People are smiling as they bounce down the street in their t-shirts and shorts, and I’m wearing some form of black, shapeless tent-chic outfit while forcing my dog to walk on the shady side of the street.
Speaking of my dog, he has completely betrayed me. There’s nothing I would love more than to enjoy a long, rainy walk with my 15-pound shih tzu as we stomp merrily through the puddles. Instead, this Californian pup dreads the rain just like every other person here. I even got him an adorable raincoat and his response was clear: NO.
I can hear everyone’s responses. “Just wear dresses or skirts! Try an easy breezy tank top!” Let me break down why that is absolutely not an option for my body.
Boobs. Like the potatoes I have descended from, my tater tots hold heat. Have you ever taken a potato out of the oven to find the insides as hot as the sun? That is what is happening in my bra. Boob sweat is real, it is a natural human function, and it is also disgusting. Pomme de terre? More like pomme de terrible. There are zero summer bras on the market for me that don’t turn my upper balcony into fresh out the oven smashed potatoes. “Just go braless, Roz!” Look, I know that there are women who have the confidence and freedom to do that no matter their chest size. I also know that I am not one of those women. I am of an age and stage of life when I simultaneously do not give a fuck what people think of my appearance, and I also do not want to blind myself with my carefree swinging rogue sweater puppies. These taters need taming.
SCHMERZ. The German word for pain is the word my best friend and I have given to the distinct feeling of wearing summer dresses with no bike shorts underneath. Anyone who doesn’t know what I’m talking about, just keep scrolling. Good for you and enjoy your easy breezy cover girl summers. My gams are yams and are as round and strong as my sturdy potato ancestors. It won’t matter what dress size I am at any given stage of life, my thighs are a mash made in the fiery pits of hell and will always meet in the middle to rub and chafe and sweat. Straight out of the potato horror movie, Silence of the Yams, this shredded hashbrown burning of the thigh meat is what we call the SCHMERZ.
So what does that leave for the potato people in the looming summer months? Not much. I’ve tried everything under the wretched burning sun and it all ends the same way: with a sweaty, grumpy, fried, over baked, hot potato of a Roz.
Bill the weather man is back tonight warning the Bay Area of a potential “STORM WATCH” tomorrow night. He has a dejected look on his face like it’s his fault that we may have more rain. He apologetically lays out the dreaded two days of precipitation while his tv anchors give him a worried and empathetic look. My shoulders relax and my toes wiggle happily. I heave a sigh of relief while my husband breathes a sigh of disappointment.
“I’d pay $10,000 to sit on a sandy hot beach with you and just sweat and bake in the sand and then swim in the clear blue ocean on repeat for a week,” he says as my shoulders start to become earrings again and I crumple further into the crevices of the couch. My silence is its own response and now he’s breathing a sigh of defeat. “Can I have a large umbrella, SPF 150, and a head to toe mumu?” I respond with as much enthusiasm as I can.
I mentally pack my bags. My summer wardrobe of black drapery clothing, a giant sun hat, enormous bras, bike shorts that withstand the schmerziest of schmerz, sunblock in bulk, kaftans, dresses, sensible sandals, giant sunglasses. Can I fit a personal air conditioner into my carry on? I close my eyes and imagine a world where I can enjoy all of these things and a bag of (potato) chips.
Love this so much. Your writing is just the best. Oh, and I’ll always be a shield from the sun for you ;)))) like a sunflower to your potato xoxoxoxoxoxo