This originally appeared on the now-gone JustB website.
Mother Nature, we need to talk.
The thing is, down here in the most southern part of the most southern hemisphere, our bones are frozen. We are grey, cold, tired and stiff. Our joints creak when we walk to the kitchen and you can forget going to bed because the sheets are like an ice shelf.
It’s not that I don’t like your winter. You put on a cracker this year, and we all lived in blankets and slow cooked everything and rubbed our hands together. That’s my schtick, I’m good with that.
But the teasing has got to stop.
Last Thursday I headed out into the morning with the kind of easy breeziness usually reserved for that supermarket makeup brand. I was waxed within an inch of my life. My hair fell in glossy waves about my face. My pedicure laughed. It was 27 degrees.
Last Thursday I headed home into the evening in the bitter cold. Without their usual layer of hairy warmth, my legs became cramped protesters. My flirty summer skirts danced a draughty tango. I was an Ice Princess. It was 12 degrees.
You see why I’ve come to you, Lady Weather. You are a commitment phobe.
It’s okay if you’re not ready for spring. I get it. All the pollen and underarms and Christmas shopping is not my style either. I will sit in your corner and wear jumpers for the rest of the year and complain no more than four times. Hell, we can skip summer all together if that pleases you. I’ll put away my bathing suit right now and we need never speak of it again.
I just need you to make up your mind.
No more teasing, you beastly broad. It’s either spring or it isn’t. It’s not “spring in the morning.” Or worse, “spring on the days you have to go to work.” It’s not “mostly spring” or “looks like spring from inside but is actually winter outside.”
You build me up just to bring me down, Duchess of Barometer. Three times this month I have put away my doonas and hot water bottles and fluffy cats, only to begrudgingly take them out again the next day. Twice you’ve thrown me in the deep end with ice on my car, then sweaty feet and sunburn. Who are you?
There are social implications to this, Princess of Pressure Systems. No one can make plans. No one feels safe sitting in beer gardens. We are full to bursting carrying a hat, an umbrella, galoshes, a Japanese paper fan, slippers and an Esky because who knows when the next season will arrive? And then leave again? And then come back? And leave and come back?
Now you’re obviously busy, with all this forgetting to maintain the current season. No one can blame you, really. Weather patterns are not what they used to be. Earthquakes in Moe. Volcanos in Moe. Icebergs in Moe. It’s okay to admit that it’s too much for one person, however ethereal she may be.
Here’s what I propose.
Just outsource it. You could get an intern! La Nina tells us she’s on her way out. She’s clearly organised, what with the clear cut in and out, bring the rain, fill the dams, job done.
You can focus on the good bits: those fluffy clouds that look like turtles, waxy white blossoms grandmothers love and the way the air smells when the wind changes to south-easterly. These are the things you’re good at, High Priestess of Meteorology. Leave spring to the juniors.
And please, let’s not drag it out. We’re freezing down here.