XIII. Old Man Winter
There is a prettiness to it all. I like the white on the ground. I like the suspended moment of icicles. I like men carrying children, and I like being able to see the breath from a woman's mouth as she tiptoes over ice to get to her car. But I can't stand the talk.
Winter Blankets the City! Gridlock Hates our Freedom! Don't Pump Your Anti-lock Brakes or Your Family Dies.
I know the game. The media love to shock, and we love to be shocked. It is a drug for which there is too much collusion for true recovery. We are flush with crisis excitement and eager to deliver the worst bit of weathery gossip into adjacent cubicles. "I heard they shut down all of 495." "I heard some truck skidded into Washington Monument and almost knocked it down." "I heard they canceled Easter."
We bag on the on-camera alarmists, yet we re-issue their modus operandi.
If you have contempt for generic talk and you deplore the utterance of a commonplace thing, this weather will make you hate the world and everyone in it, including yourself. You may not want to, but you'll end up saying boring things like "cold enough for ya?" or "I'm 'bout ready for summer!" You can't help yourself. It's like when you are at a party telling a stock story to new faces as a patient spouse feigns a smile; you hate yourself, but you keep going.
One co-worker, sweet as Southern pie and red-cheeked and splotchy from the wind, came buzzing into the office yesterday morning. Her coat still smelled like cold, and her hair fanned out from the back of her red beret. She unwrapped her scarf and started with "Oh my gosh! I can't believe I made it. It took me two hours to get here from Rock Creek Parkway!"
And did I say, "Listen, that's of little interest to me and my family?"
Did I interrupt and offer an authoritative "The End"?
No.
I said, "Man, it must reeeeally be cold out there." Now remember, I was just out there 15 minutes before she arrived, yet here I am talking like I just emerged from the Earth's core. Just total winter panic on my part. I intermittently stared at her the rest of the day, wishing I had said something different, or simply smiled.
When she got up to put on her coat at the end of the day, she said, "Well, here I go, back into hell."
"OK, my blood is on your hands, princess."
It didn't make sense, but at least it wasn't generic.
Winter Blankets the City! Gridlock Hates our Freedom! Don't Pump Your Anti-lock Brakes or Your Family Dies.
I know the game. The media love to shock, and we love to be shocked. It is a drug for which there is too much collusion for true recovery. We are flush with crisis excitement and eager to deliver the worst bit of weathery gossip into adjacent cubicles. "I heard they shut down all of 495." "I heard some truck skidded into Washington Monument and almost knocked it down." "I heard they canceled Easter."
We bag on the on-camera alarmists, yet we re-issue their modus operandi.
If you have contempt for generic talk and you deplore the utterance of a commonplace thing, this weather will make you hate the world and everyone in it, including yourself. You may not want to, but you'll end up saying boring things like "cold enough for ya?" or "I'm 'bout ready for summer!" You can't help yourself. It's like when you are at a party telling a stock story to new faces as a patient spouse feigns a smile; you hate yourself, but you keep going.
One co-worker, sweet as Southern pie and red-cheeked and splotchy from the wind, came buzzing into the office yesterday morning. Her coat still smelled like cold, and her hair fanned out from the back of her red beret. She unwrapped her scarf and started with "Oh my gosh! I can't believe I made it. It took me two hours to get here from Rock Creek Parkway!"
And did I say, "Listen, that's of little interest to me and my family?"
Did I interrupt and offer an authoritative "The End"?
No.
I said, "Man, it must reeeeally be cold out there." Now remember, I was just out there 15 minutes before she arrived, yet here I am talking like I just emerged from the Earth's core. Just total winter panic on my part. I intermittently stared at her the rest of the day, wishing I had said something different, or simply smiled.
When she got up to put on her coat at the end of the day, she said, "Well, here I go, back into hell."
"OK, my blood is on your hands, princess."
It didn't make sense, but at least it wasn't generic.
posted by Clubber Lang at 2:18 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home