And this is why I live in the SW desert, and not in southern Florida. Normally it’s dry; very dry. I like very dry.
Right now, not quite so much.
55% humidity indoors. All my twisted joints and broken bones hurt. I’m hobbling around like an old man. I can barely type with my left hand, which has lost all its fine motor skills. And what the hell is with that smiley face and “OK?” What’s this little electronic traitor got to smile about? Huh?
It didn’t even rain very much last night, and…
That’s the other thing: I don’t even bother looking at the forecast anymore. All it ever tells me is that there’s a good chance of afternoon rain. Or morning rain. It might be brief and gentle, like last night. It might make me change all my long-term plans, like three weeks ago. Or it might not rain at all. Stay tuned, Americans.
That’s the single thing I liked about southern California: It didn’t even really have weather as such, most of the time. Here, the weather likes its drama. And in principle I consider that a good thing, as it’s one of the factors that cause tourists and gentrifiers to slide right on by and leave us alone: It’s like most of them can’t even see us, and so a hermit can mostly be left in peace. I like that.
In practice, of course, I don’t like unpleasant weather any more than the tourists and gentrifiers. I’m just prepared to put up with it as part of the cost of living here. And for all my whinging and moaning, I really like living here.