There are days that seem, from that moment of first consciousness until that exhausted heave of breath before you fall asleep, that things go wrong. There seems to be a strong correlation between these events and the weather. The bright days are less likely to be muddied by many of life’s annoyances, frustrations and miscalculations: it’s almost as if it would be an affront to the vast panoply of blue sky stretched taut over those of us living in its umbrage to demean it with tickets, lost keys, mislaid receipts and petty bickering. The grey sky, heavy with precipitation just begs strife. I have a theory about most things. It’s what makes my world work so well. These theories of mine. This particular theory is that on grey, dull days, our happiness isn’t-life-great vibes are dampened by the moisture in the air. What’s more, we are all gravity-bound to earth and continue to pollute our world with negativity. How’s that for a good one? Much of the time that works for me. However, with every rule, there come exceptions. There are days, drizzly, grey, damp, raw days so particularly well-manufactured in New England, that, when a flame-shaped, green tip emerges from a rain-soaked earth in hint that a daffodil is stirring below, the spirit expands. There are days when every layer of clothing is soaked through from a drenching, bone-numbing rain that later include a roaring fire, a cup of hot chocolate, a fuzzy blanket and a good book. Could there be anything much finer? So, try out my theory about grey days, grey outcomes. But keep your eyes open for when it’s the exception rather than the rule. You won’t be disappointed.