i watch wmur channel nine morning news every single day. i shuffle out of bed, to the shower, into whatever vaguely matching clothes i decide will camouflage the fact that i am trying desperately to play grown-up. or sometimes i just wear black. i justify this by spending two years in france, where black is the national uniform, but really because it's harder to mess up getting dressed before the sun comes up, and maybe because i am perpetually mourning the loss of endless summer days spent lazing on the beach wall, the cement soaking up the heat of the day like a sponge while i contemplate the very important passage of clouds and just how red the sunset might be as it falls over the ocean. instead i hiss angrily at the sliver of open window when the morning air rushes in and freezes the ends of my hair, because seasonally speaking, it's not even fall yet.
kevin skarupa the weatherman is putting on a one-man show before me, a song and dance routine to entertain and inform while i mutely crunch my cereal. "first signs of frost in the north country," he announces gleefully, for his profession depends on the changing of seasons for survival, whereas i depend on sundresses and sunbleached hair. it is 5:57 am. i'm early today. i time my breakfast with the 6 o'clock broadcast, the news anchor lady shuffling her cue cards and laughing quietly at some bad joke, because no joke is actually funny before sunrise. i like to see if she's wearing some sort of outlandish jewelry that day, or a ridiculous dress that she chose to break up her routine, if only for one half-hour segment. if i met her on the street, we would be on a first-name basis. "erin," i would say. "i wish i could get my bangs to look like yours every morning. how do you do it?" and i always wonder about the reporter who is perpetually on assignment in a far-flung corner of the granite state, battling wind or rain or curious bystanders as he repeats himself over police sirens. is he really that passionate about local news that he just can't bring himself to sit tight in the studio? or does he just really hate sports coats?
this ensemble cast of characters is the soundtrack to brushing my teeth, packing my lunch, putting on my shoes, and it is simultaneously maddening and comforting. i know that the traffic always comes before the weather and after the economy, that baby animal or feel-good high school sports star stories are my cue to rush out to catch the train. every single morning i wonder how they do it, how they repeat the same lines every day off a tired script even when the plot changes by the minute. are they really not trapped in some perpetual deja vu, recorded on camera with microphones and fake smiles, "have a great morning" their cheery send-off becoming meaningless after the first two hundred takes? the routine of it all confounds me, even as it is my most trusted barometer to tell if i'm running late if i haven't put on mascara by the time the windshield replacement commercial starts to play. i am sucked into their schedule, the complicated dance that is always transforming but yet never does, because if they can do it, why can't i? someday 5:27 will become old hat and i will go about my morning as effortlessly as the anchors, embracing the sameness in the face of the chaos of real life not prettily packaged in a news broadcast.
this morning, during his topological tap-dance, the weatherman told me it was 38 degrees outside. i run to the relative warmth of the car, because i refuse to wear a jacket at this point in september, because i refuse to believe it's not still july, and i am slightly offended by the thermometer reading 50 degrees. "kevin skarupa," i say out loud. "you said it was going to be cold today. how dare you? i use you for all my temperature and wardrobe decisions." i feel cheated, as though the team of broadcasters narrating the hour from 5:30 to 6:30 has pulled a fast one on me, declining the role i gave them as my own personal morning commentators. but i ease out onto the road, not still dark, but not yet quite light, and the thermometer skyrockets downwards, settling at 38. i breathe a sigh of relief, knowing someday soon that that puff of air will be visible, cold crystallizing before the steering wheel. today is not the day channel nine will let me down. someday it will be me, grudgingly adapting to a new weatherman, a new anchor lady with different bangs, but for now, they are the team that gets me out the door when all i want to do is stay in bed. "maybe we'll change tomorrow," they seem to say. "maybe you will change tomorrow." but i have to tune in to find out.
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