Stormy Weather

Dear Channel 7's 7-day forecast,

Go die in a fire.

Piss off,
Amy

This shit ain't right. I have a four-day weekend this weekend. I start my new gig on Tuesday. Marathon Monday is my favorite holiday of the whole year. Seriously. No need to buy expensive gifts, no cards, no sense of familial duty, no religious connotations. Just a reason to have a day out of the office on a fledgling spring day, the ability to watch a Sox day game in the comfort of your own home (or Local), a reason to start drinking at 10am, the putt-putt-putt-putt of helicopters hovering over Beacon Street, the cheering of little kids and psyched adults as the first wheelchair racer comes by, then the elite male runners, then the elite females, then the droves of regular joes running for charity or their own goals, with marriage proposals scrawled across their arms, pushing through muscle cramps and bleeding nipples, the crowd cheering them to keep moving, keep going.

But no. This year, many of the regular-guy runners will just decide to stay home and watch the Sox since it's going to be about 40 degrees and rainy. Many of the spectators will just stay inside and root the runners on from their couches. The fun, as-close-to-Mardi-Gras-as-Boston-gets atmosphere will be dimmed. All the winter we missed in December has been tacked onto the end of April. When I need the sun on my shoulders most, Ma Nature decides to have the rain come down. What if the Sox get rained out? What will I do all day? It's not as fun to get drunk to Ellen or reruns of the Cosby Show. I guess I'll just hunker down in my friend's covered stoop and watch the miserable marathoners slog down Beacon Street along a sparsely populated route.

Whatever. I'm still going to enjoy my little break. Friday I am going to babysit and get my hair cut. Saturday, I am going to sleep in, sit on my fat ass and watch Phantom Gourmet (Am I the only one who has a deep, disturbing crush on Dave Andleman?), bake some complicated strawberry cupcakes, dye my hair, and go out to dinner. Sunday, I'm staying at a fancy-pants hotel downtown to give myself a relatively inexpensive change of scene. Monday, despite Mother Nature's best attempts, I am going to watch the Marathon. I will stand in the freezing rain in my big ugly winter coat I swore I'd not wear again until late 2007, beer in hand, yelling my fool head off for the dedicated and crazy souls who still come out to run. It's the least I can do for them.