This winter has been relentless. For the majority of it, Brooklyn has been buried under a blanket of snow, narrow sidewalks have been reduced to balance beams, snirt and snow trash have littered every corner and the claustrophobic charm of urban living has been blown to smithereens. For me, at least. So, the first hints of blue sky and temperatures over 40 degrees have been bliss, to say the least. I've actually found myself smiling at people. Strangers, even.
But spring is not all rainbows and kittens. No ma'am. Spring brings with her a cruel wake up call. Beneath that giant jacket and that voluminous wool sweater lies the pale, flabby flesh of winter. There are the glasses of wine you began drinking when the sun set at 3:30; there are the loaves of fresh bread you used to sop up the warm soups; there are the mornings when you snoozed through your alarm instead of going running through the tundra. There they all are, staring at you expectantly as you disrobe for what feels like the first time in years.
Fair enough. This happens to everyone, unless you're some sort of robot. Congratulations if you're a robot, by the way. What I wanted to write about today were the various excuses we come up with at this point in the winter/spring baton pass. The other day I found myself truly thinking that my jeans were too tight because my underwear had stretched out. And a friend of mine revealed to me that she had convinced herself that her dry cleaner was shrinking all of her pants. It makes me giggle just writing about it.
I'm pretty sure no one reads this thing, but if you do, I wonder if you have an excuse to share that's just as ridiculous.
Okay, off to watch the red carpet arrivals on mute. Is it a rule that all of the "greeters" or whatever you call the E/Access Hollywood/Extra people have to be idiots? It kills me.