A young professional’s take on the trials and tribulations of everyday life in New York City.
By Nina Pajak
Ah, February. The month I wish weren’t. It’s cold, it’s dark, and it contains a holiday that makes a large portion of the American population feel like dog doo. Fie on you,
Presidents Valentine’s Day! The one saving grace is that it’s short. So typically that February would start out with a gusty, freezing cold day filled with sleet and hail and all other manner of miserable winter precipitation.
What the fridge is going on here, anyway? I know there are still plenty of people out there who think global warming is some sort of military-industrial-media-congressional-corporate fat cat-rainforest lobby complex. Who knows? Maybe you’re right. I’m pretty sure that starving polar bear would agree to disagree, as would the confused yet happily overfed Northeastern woodland creature community, but hey. This is America. Everyone is entitled to come to their own conclusions.
Regardless of where you come down on the concept that our planet is melting and soon we’ll all drown to death in the polar ice cap runoff and sharks will learn to walk on dry land and birds will develop carnivorous tendencies and the trees will start to spontaneously combust and/or eat us alive or whatever, there’s no denying one thing: the weather is getting weird. With the exception of a few miserably cold days, this winter has been remarkably temperate. Downright pleasant, really. And who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth? Nobody. I’m nobody to do that. I’d never. I don’t. This is delightful. It’s February 1st and in the neighborhood of 60 degrees? I’m pretty sure the last time we enjoyed that type of climate, this place was called Pangaea.
I will say that this unusually warm weather has put a serious damper on my winter weight gain. I keep wanting to treat myself to generous helpings of wine and pasta and red meat and cream-based sauces and other carby, heavy, cold-weather indulgences, which are normally permissible under the “no one can see your body under that giant sweater, at least until March” rule. But the fact that I need to keep dragging out my skirts and tights and lightweight tops in lieu of the wool tarpaulin I normally favor this time of year is forcing me to stay honest. And frankly, I don’t appreciate it. Nature has already done enough in regards to my metabolism and capacious hunger. She doesn’t need to start policing my behavior year-round now, too.
Plus, I think it’s becoming more and more clear that we’re all going to die. Or something.
On the other hand, when I think about the fact that the planet is hurtling closer towards the sun and the entire ecosystem is going topsy-turvy and we may or may not be facing apocalypse, my next thought is: “Welp, screw my diet. Pizza for dinner!” Is that wrong? You don’t have to answer that.
Dear Readers: While I am rarely at a loss for words, I’m always grateful for column ideas. Please feel free to e-mail me your suggestions.
Nina Pajak is a writer and publishing professional living with her husband on the Upper West Side.
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