This has been an unusual weather year in
Atlanta, and it reached new heights of absurdity today. It is the first day of June and the temperature just barely broke sixty degrees. As I type this it is fifty-nine degrees. It is also raining as it has been for five days now. Friday was a beautiful spring day, then Saturday came, the sun disappeared, and it’s felt like late fall in
Georgia ever since. I obsess about the weather, obviously, and no I’m not on medication, and I am about one more day of this from losing my mind. I need heat. I need sunshine. I need to fake my death and head for
New Orleans.
The weather is always a little fishy here, except in summer when you know pretty well what you’re gonna get. People in Atlanta often say that we don’t really get spring here, we just go straight from winter to summer. And many years that seems true. But usually by this time of year summer has arrived to stay for several months and I am happy. But not this year. We’ve had a warm day or two here or there, but the nice weather was just passing through on its way somewhere else. I went digging through the historical archives of the National Weather Service and confirmed my suspicion: this day really is an anomaly. I looked back at the weather in Atlanta on June 1 over the last fifty years (shut up smartass) and the two lowest high temps I could find were 73 in 1992 and 66 in 1967. I wonder how far back I’d have to look to find something lower than today? It feels…wrong, and it seems like there is a malaise hanging over Atlanta. I need a tin foil coat to go with my hat.
