The Future of Weather

  • Graphic Joshua Barkman

Maybe it’s because I’ve been listening to too much Nost-orious D.A.M.U.S. lately, but I can’t help but start to worry about the future—specifically, the future of the weather.

I did some research on Wikipedia last year, and it turns out that Al Gore actually does have credible claims to having played a role in the birth of the Internet. (SpOoky.) On the other hand, however, he also played a role in the birth of people freaking out about climate change.

Don’t get me wrong—I hate talking about the weather just as much as anyone else. It’s a weapon in an arsenal that you use to deal with awkward moments with strangers you don’t want to offend, but don’t have any friends in common with.

These people rank somewhere between “child” and “yeti” on the human-being scale, and their intelligence tends to occupy a pretty similar rank. The weather is a good, simple concept that basically everyone can offer an opinion on. But talking about it used to be, first and foremost, low-key.

These days, that sweet, child-like innocence is a relic of a distant, ancient past we will never see again, like the concept of re-winding, or phone booths. Al Gore, however right or wrong the future will prove him to be, has turned us all into weather hypochondriacs.

What previously could have been written off as a fluke, or a lucky warm streak, is now stressed over.

Case in point—last week’s beautiful, unseasonable warmth was hard to enjoy without guiltily thinking a) Oh god, what have we done to the environment, b) How freaking hot is it going to be in July, or c) Both, kill me now, I don’t want to drown in a puddle of my own sweat and melted skin during the summer of 2014.

The worse outcome, of course, was that the cold snap that followed the warmth was somehow reassuring. If this is what the future is going to be like—if we’re going to be enjoying bad weather because it makes us feel less bad than enjoying good weather—then I’m out.

Call up Roland Hemmerich and John Cusack. Pat the Mayans on the back. It’s 2012. The end of the world might as well be nigh. I don’t think I can handle another spring this nerve-wracking, and it’s not even finals week yet.

By commenting on this page you agree to the terms of our Comments Policy.