You know how people are always telling you about Important Scientific Things? Like, “The stock market is exhibiting stochastic volatility” or “Your cholesterol level suggests you are composed primarily of melted butter”? I usually tune those out. My brain just files them under “Stuff That Is Probably a Lie.”
But my wife, the recently minted Doctorate Kimberly Moreland (yes, she has the official piece of paper now, which means she’s constantly using words like extrapolate and transmogrify), mentioned that there was going to be a Coronal Mass Ejection (CME). Which, I am pretty sure, sounds like what happens if you feed the sun too many burritos.
Anyway, I forgot about it, because I was busy doing important man stuff, like trying to figure out which remote controls the volume on the TV.
Then tonight, as we were settled in for some serious channel surfing (which is an extreme sport, trust me), Kim suddenly shouts, “Babe! Get your bits ready! People are seeing the CME!”
(Side note: Whenever your significant other shouts a command like that, you know it’s either an emergency or an excuse to buy something expensive.)
Turns out, the Sun Burrito Explosion had sent a wave of highly charged particles hurtling toward Earth, and we, here in the allegedly boring lower 48, were getting a light show—the Aurora Borealis.
Naturally, this called for a highly scientific and well-thought-out response.
Our response was to run outside immediately, dressed in our respective pajamas. When I say dressed, I mean technically wearing fabric, but let’s be honest, the level of actual coverage was, shall we say, minimal. There was a lot of, ah, flapping. This is important because, when you live in a neighborhood, this is how you establish dominance.
And holy moly. The sky was PINK.
Not like “nice sunset pink.” It was like, “the world’s most enthusiastic unicorn just threw up all over the atmosphere” pink. It was genuinely stunning.
We looked at each other, eyes wide, pajamas flapping, and came to the only logical conclusion: We needed to get in the truck and drive at least a mile to the open space for a better view. Because nothing says “serious astronomical observers” like a middle-aged couple barreling down a dark road at 9 PM dressed like two slightly deflated tube socks.
We probably set a new record for “Fastest PJs-Clad Commute to a Public Park.”
We got our view, we took some terrible, blurry photos that look like we just smeared raspberry jam on the camera lens, and we high-fived. Because that’s what you do when the universe sends you a majestic light show—you perform a celebratory high-five. It’s in the Constitution somewhere.
Most people, the poor misguided souls, will never see the Northern Lights. Especially not down here, where we are usually too busy worrying about things like potholes and whether they are ever going to make a decent sequel to Die Hard.
But we saw it. And it was cool.
And here is the professional, scientific takeaway from your humble correspondent: It is cooler when you are slightly under-dressed. Nothing enhances the majesty of a $100 million light show like the brisk November air reminding you that your fashion choices for the evening were questionable.
Go hug your local doctorate, America. And always keep a fresh pair of pajamas handy. You never know when the sky is going to demand a spontaneous, partially-exposed road trip.