I’m looking out the window this morning at sideways rain and wind as bad as I’ve ever seen. I’m safe inside- but just barely. I’m awesome! I’m braving it! I’m surviving Irene!
Kind of. A confession: I am writing this a hundred miles west of New York City. I loaded up the minivan a few days ago and drove my kids quite far from the center of the excitement. But make no mistake: there’s a distinct possibility of some flash flooding! And one downed tree! So, pretty thrilling, right?… Never mind.
All the thrills around here are me watching CNN and refreshing Twitter every five minutes for news of New York City and eastern Long Island, where I could have been instead. But even there, my sister (in NYC) and friends (on Long Island) are shrugging at the whole thing and playing cards by candlelight. Nothing much else to report. “Overrated,” one friend has already tweeted unequivocally (I guess she had the foresight to fully charge her cell phone pre-storm).
And so, stupidly I realize, I am feeling a little sorry for myself. I wish I was with the cool kids, making memories my kids could share with their grandchildren. I will get no “I survived Hurricane Irene” props here in Pennsylvania– I’m sitting here in a quiet house blogging while my husband has the kids out bowling, for Pete’s sake.
But at the same time, I know that’s ridiculous. People HAVE died. People HAVE lost their homes. This may not have been the storm of all time, but that’s nothing but wonderful news. All the snark and eye rolls at the overhype seem to me like the snark and eye rolls of a million teenagers at a mother’s overprotectiveness: she thinks, like, you can’t even drive ONE BEER and then get behind the wheel of a car, and we did, and it was totally fine.
I guess what I’m saying is: I’m thrilled my home and my friends’ homes were spared. (So far; some people aren’t out of the woods yet). But I’m not so sure the worriers among us were so wrong to worry. If we were, let’s be thrilled about that, instead of annoyed.