Hurricane Sandy: Yes I AM a Force of Nature, Bitches!

Up until this week, my biggest claims to fame as a Sandy were one truly great Springsteen song and the heroine of that incredibly illogical movie with John Travolta. I never much liked my tired old 1950s moniker, which has occasioned, throughout my 55 years, innumerable jokes about sandy bottoms, beaches and feet. But all that is about to change, according to the Weather Channel, because as of Wednesday morning, I’m a hurricane—a big ol’ bruiser of a storm with the potential to absolutely crush buildings, bridges, telephone poles and everything else between Virginia and Maine. BOO-YAH!!!

Ever since I got word that I’m a hurricane, I’ve felt this strange swell of puissance, a mighty undercurrent of forcefulness. No more candy-ass simpering Olivia Newton-John, kids; you are gonna HEAR ME ROAR! I’m going to rattle your roofs, bust out your windows, overturn your Jeeps and back up your septic tanks. Okay, maybe I won’t do that last; it sounds kind of gross. But I must say, I’m going to enjoy making like Mayhem on those Allstate commercials, laying waste and pillaging and leaving a trail of debris in my wake. You know what else? This Monday, when I hit Philly and environs, is my birthday! How perfect is that?

Not just everybody gets to be a hurricane, I hope you realize. And if you’re female, your chances were substantially reduced by the exceedingly politically correct decision in 1979 to add male names to the list. (Hey! Men wreak havoc, too!) What’s more, storms are named while they’re still small. But once a name is used, it’s retired, even if its namesake stalls in the Caribbean and doesn’t really get going. There will never be another Hurricane Sandy. For me, this is it. And you know in your hearts that you’re jealous, Christy and Erica and Jess and Janine. You, too, would like to be the “I” of the hurricane.

I know, I know; nobody can really predict the weather. It’s still possible that I’ll peter out, get downgraded into a mere tropical storm or even (long, heavy sigh) a depression. Shift happens. For now, though, I’m enjoying reading stuff like this about myself: “Sandy is now in range of the radar in Pilon, Cuba, which clearly shows its intense rain bands and increasingly well-defined center.” You go, me!

Our chairman, Mr. Herb Lipson, was just in my office, discussing world affairs. He lives at the Jersey Shore. “I’m coming for you on Monday,” I hissed to him, and I think it gave him pause. I like the sensation of cracking my knuckles. Ordinarily, people aren’t much afraid of me. Now, perhaps they’ll take me more seriously.

Because really, inside every tame, quiet copy editor/writer, there dwells a big bad Hurricane Sandy, patiently waiting for conditions to develop in exactly the right way to allow her, just this once, to let it all hang out. Batten your hatches! Secure your lawn furniture! Board up the windows! Like Hazel, Agnes, Camille, Katrina and Rita before me, this is my moment to shine. Um—storm.