I was never that afraid of weather before.
In fact, whenever anyone makes a big whoop out of some impending storm, I always roll my eyes and say, “Oh, please, missy! It’s just weather! Boring!”
But this time it’s for real.
My palms are sweatier than the time I found myself onstage at Don’t Tell Mama and had to stretch for five minutes while the main star readjusted his girdle in the dressing room.
I’m going as daft as a reality star whose show has been canceled!
The anticipation is driving me batty, and even though I’ve made every imaginable preparation, it’s the not knowing that’s putting the hazy back in crazy.
How bad will it be? Will we lose power? Will we lose sleep?
I’m tempted to put myself under as if undergoing surgery, like Michael Jackson used to do every night, but I can’t find anyone to administer that who’s not in jail.
I just want to fast-forward to the aftermath rather than have to endure the during.
I find this a tedious yet terrifying intrusion in my life, and not quite the kind of soothing summer weekend I had imagined!
The killer is, this is the kind of shit you have to deal with if you live in Florida.
I always thought being in NYC meant you were (literally) above such things! Waa!