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The weather this weekend did not live up to my expectations. In fact, it essentially sucked. As did the lame attempts of weather gurus to deliver a remotely accurate forecast.
Stone: correct. Weatherman: not so much.
Upon consulting three different weather reporting websites, I invariably received three entirely different forecasts. To be fair, I do understand that meteorological science is not as advanced as I would like it to be and that weather can be relatively unpredictable and highly localized; However, there’s a big difference between “80 degrees with a slight chance of rain” and “65 degrees with thunderstorms likely.” Let’s get it together, meteorologists. If it’s going to be wrong anyway, at least try to put out the same scientific wild-ass guess. Keep it simple.
As I was holed up in the Cuneo Mansion waiting for the nasty red blotches parading willy-nilly across the screen of my Smartphone Overlord to subside, I realized that this was the perfect opportunity for me to practice calming my inner control freak by chanting “It is what it is” over and over again in the style of a Gregorian monk on anti-depressants. I fear the people nearest to me may have been slightly alarmed by my display, but that just meant that I had room to stretch out and relax while I composed this post.
As a cargo pilot, I recall a few times that I had the opportunity to simply sit in the pilot lounge and watch the radar with my fellow freight dogs.
"Run" indeed.
Some would vehemently curse the storms keeping us on the ground while others would simply sit back, relax and count themselves lucky to be on the ground wishing they were flying rather than the other way around. Which group I most resembled depended a lot on whether I thought it might be possible to thwart the evil designs of the torrential downpours or if the squall line had squashed even the most fanciful theories of propelled flight within the next 6 hours or so. Recently, I find myself craving to be the latter group more often and in many more situations. I mean, really, in most cases, what’s the worse that could happen? Will anyone die? Be horribly and permanently disfigured? Maimed? Or will I simply be forced to find something to occupy my time while I wait for the skies to clear?
I have reached this level of Zen on a few occasions, though only after considerable mental self-torture. When I consider the worst possible outcome and realize that the worst really isn’t all that horrible after all, I’m finally able to convince my overactive inner control freak to take a hiatus to Chill Town for a nice, relaxing walk on Itiswhatitis Beach.
No, thank you. Maybe another time.
Now, what would happen if I imagined the worst case scenario BEFORE allowing my inner control freak unlimited access to the Iron Maiden? I’d certainly save myself a gray hair or two, that’s for sure. And that means I’d save some money on hair color. Hey, it is what it is and I’m good with that.