Springtime in Colorado is fabulous. Sunshine, warm breeze, flowers popping their little heads out of the ground. Many people (Hi Dad!) think all of Colorado is under an eternal ice cap with occasional glimpses of sun, but it’s quite the opposite. I live in the burbs of Denver, where we get 300 days of sunshine, or so the Chamber of Commerce (who would never exaggerate, right?) says.
Some people hate our weather because it’s so unpredictable. It can be 75 degrees one day, and 35 the next. We’ll have a day that’s so windy, Antie Em would be calling frantically for Dorothy, followed by a dumping of snow, and then a day of shorts and sandals. I lived far too long in the Midwest with its predictable weather; snow starts falling in September, and stays on the ground until the last of the permafrost melts in June. I’ll take the fickle weather, since it brings with it the ability to see the actual ground more days than not.
So, today, I’m out driving my VW Passat with the sunroof open, enjoying the sunshine and wind in my hair, being a big girl and resisting the urge to put my hands out the top to wave at passersby. I was feeling as sassy as a cat on a window sill, and pitied all the poor folks with solid metal over their heads. As I pulled up to the light, all smug and happy, a pretty blue Corvette convertible pulled alongside me in the next lane. The driver smiled at me with sun on his face. And I still had plenty of metal above my head.
Well played, Mr. Corvette. Well played.