Hi, my name is Jessica and I’m someone who talks about the weather. I’m aware that this is the equivalent admitting I don’t know how to engage, or not being able to recognize when I should just say hello and walk away. But I think my problem is far more serious than my being awkward or my fear of being awkward; the weather has become something that actually fascinates me.

For 23 years, I don’t think I spoke of the weather once. In Hawaii, where I grew up, where the temperature doesn’t change, the weather is the epitome of a mundane conversation. “Dude, it’s hot.” ”Yup.” The end. 

Then I moved to LA, where there wasn’t much more to talk about in terms of climate. In LA, there’s two seasons: pleasantly warm and a tad chillier. Portland also had two seasons: depressing as fuck and gorgeous. These two extremes left a lot of room for bitching and praise, and while neither were a surprise when, or for how long they occurred, they were a conversational metaphor (and excuse) for my moods and frustrations. (Note: A window of sunniness in an otherwise perpetually gray state induces guilt if not cherished wholly.) 

Right now, it is 75 degrees outside. (I think) it’s safe to say I’ve completed my first New York winter. My first real winter with snow, sleet, rain, sunshine, clear 12 degree nights, gray 55 degree days and wind chills that made me want to cry.

I have experienced first-hand what an unpredictable beast the weather can be, and I find its erratic side if not charming, compelling. Sure, the tortures are extreme (frozen faces in the winter, sweat puddled naps in the summer), and the extremes can be draining, but you can never be sure what you’re gonna get when you wake up every day. Despite what the iPhone forecasts.

I like the gamble. Sometimes it’s too much (or too little) pressure to start out every day sunny. Sometimes it’s well enough just to start a brand new day.