An Open Letter to Canadian Weather (April 26, 2016)

Dear Canadian Weather,

I am sorry for the squabble we had last week when I took off for the warm caress of the Florida sunshine. I know it may have appeared as though I abandoned you for brighter pastures, and, as a good Canadian, I am truly sorry.

Wait. Hold on. I believe I may have just experienced a moment of delirium brought on by the dreary morning drizzle you threw at me this morning.

Guess what? My name is not Justin Beiber, and I am not sorry. I’ve been surrounded by the comforting warmth of the sunshine for nearly ten days, so I know you’ve been holding out on me. My skin rejoiced with every second it spent absorbing the generous rays of pure, glorious heat cast upon me from that giant, yellow circle of the southern skies.

There is not much a Canadian won't do to catch a few rays of sunshine.

From the first glimmer of sunrise, until the last shadow cast at twilight, I doused myself with Tropics oil and felt Zen with my inner tanning goddess. And, Canadian Weather, please note: I was not the only maple leaf patriot escaping your reign of brisk winds and snow blasts.  Like a puppy with a new ball, us Canadians get a little excited when sunlight is thrown at us.

We are easily identified in the south. We are the ones walking around with grins and not much more. Literally. We wear as little clothing as we can legally get away with. We believe in equal rights for all areas of our body, and our shockingly pale bellies gradually darken into what is only whispered longingly about during the frigid winter nights you grace us with: a tan.

Canadians in the south are the happiest creatures you can encounter. We are polite. We are courteous. And we walk around with our faces towards the sky, giggling and randomly nudging one another with, “Sure is hot, eh?”

And, my dear Canadian Weather, having spent my life dealing with your dual-personality tendencies, I am cautious. I don’t put away the winter clothes until I am certain you’ve committed to one season. There are weeks where our long underwear and toques have to mingle with capris and flip-flops, and frankly, Canadian Weather, I find that increasingly inconsiderate on your part. And, because of this weather paranoia that has encompassed my Canadian psyche since birth, I was sure to pack a weather first-aid kit consisting of jeans, sweaters and coats for all. Turns out I didn’t need it. Until today, that is.

Canadian Weather, I know you have a reputation to maintain. I know you can be a bit moody. I know you like a good joke, and will whip out a few flakes of white flurries during April, just to remind us who has the upper hand in our relationship.

But guess what?

I know your strength is weakening. I know your reserves of ice pelts and freezing rain are diminishing. You can’t sit behind your wall of snow bricks hurling white bombs at us much longer. My days of dressing in three layers of clothing are over.

I don’t want to hear any more of your empty promises and excuses. Don’t tease us with the warm breezes of spring one day, only to douse us with a chilly shower of drizzle the next. I’ve been to the other side. I’ve soaked up the sunshine, and I know there’s more where that came from. Perhaps you can work out some sort of sunshine time sharing deal with Florida. I mean, if I can sit through a 90-minute presentation in order to score a deal on my Universal tickets, I’m pretty sure you can too. But, instead of bringing home tickets, bring us the sun. We deserve it.

It’s time you stood up for yourself, and stop letting all those southern climates bully you. Demand they share that circle of fire. Come on, Canadian Weather, it’s time for you to grow some balls. And not of the snow variety.

Sincerely,

A true Canadian, stubbornly wearing her shorts and tank top, even if it freezes her tanned ass off.

Originally posted on my The Forty Years blog during a depressing bout of snow on April 26, 2016