First of all, I know it's your job. You get paid to come on my television and tell me bad news. You are obligated to stand in front of your weather map with your isobars hanging out and inform me that the temperatures in the balmy South are going to dip into the teens toward the end of this week. You are required to inform me that in some parts of the state away from the metro area the temperatures may actually drop into the single digits. As if a degree or two one way or another makes any difference at that point. You feel compelled to inform me of the vicious winds that will whirl all day and all night, winds that I abhor with a passion that is second only to the loathing that I feel for cold temperatures. You are only doing your duty to remind me to bring tender plants and pets inside and check on the elderly.
I understand that. I really do. And I try not to resent the fact that you keep your job (and your make-up person and your hair person) even when you are wrong 50% of the time. I wish I could keep MY job based on guesswork.
I get that it is your job to tell me just how miserable I'm going to be later this week. You just don't have to look so damn happy doing it.
Hubby swears there's a reason they only show weather forecasters from the waist up, and it has to do with the pleasure you appear to derive from imparting such dire predictions on the mostly unsuspecting public. I'm beginning to think he may be right.
**I apologize to those of you who live in parts of the country for which these temperatures are normal. God did not mean for me to be this cold; that's why He put me in Georgia.