Rain

Soundtrack: “Lover You Should’ve Come Over” – Jeff Buckley Cover, Jamie Cullum

I hate rainy weather.
And if I have plans with you, I’ll always cancel them. Always.

“Sorry, I’m not feeling so hot today. Yeah. Mhmm. Rain check? No pun intended"
“I hate the rain. It’s miserable out – let’s do a movie and popcorn instead?”
“It’s raining again. I should get up. Yeah, right... snooze, where the fuck is the snooze button?”
I hate rainy weather.

I hate the fact that there’s always traffic in the city when it rains, no matter what. It’s as if people forget how to drive. It’s as if the rain is an excuse to walk slower, drive slower, and to not look up. Pedestrians become selectively blind – to street signs, cars, and signals – frantically walking, escaping to somewhere. Frightened that the water will melt them, as if they were related to the wicked witch of the west. Today, because of the rain, it’s particularly imperative for them to make it to an appointment, a date, a dinner party, or the lovely dentist's office – to a warm place – so they don’t need to care about traffic rules or the cars stuck in traffic. How do you spell jay walkers? It’s as if the rain is the director's cue for them to move as if they’re moving through water – which I guess they are, but it’s not an excuse. So, slow. I’m so impatient.
I hate rainy weather.

I hate the mud that is trekked in – on the buses, the normally clean white tiles of shopping malls, and especially in public restrooms. I hate slippery stairs and sidewalks that have been shaded in a repulsive shade of brown. If I slip now, I’m screwed.
I hate rainy weather.

I hate feeling permanently uncomfortable, cold. Unable to warm myself up and rub my hands on my arms in fear of getting my hands wet on my jacket. I stand on the bus, trying to hold my umbrella away from me, hoping it won’t brush against my jeans that definitely aren’t waterproof. I hate soaked shoes. Feeling soaked to the bones. What I hate even more is soaked gloves – they’re supposed to keep me warm, but when they’re wet, they’re absolutely useless. I can't touch any part of my self because they're wet -- and I don't want to take them off, because where would I put them? Not in my pockets where it's actually dry. I feel like a cat, frozen – paralyzed because of the weather. I hate it when people shake their umbrellas and the water sprays back onto my face, that moment, when the cold drops hit your face... Then, wait, it’s coming… the soft draft that would’ve been fine a minute ago, becomes ten times colder because your face is wet. I hate the rain more than the cold that comes with it.
I hate rainy weather.

But really? ... I secretly love it.

It’s as if all the world is muffled – it’s three notches quieter. People tucked under their hoods, clutching tightly to their umbrellas, rushing by, gingerly picking their way through the puddles, too busy to loiter or chat outside my window. Add the pitter patter of the rain hitting the pavement and all you have is a distant hum from the traffic outside – and a soothing cadence of rain thrumming against the window and water rushing through the gutters, carving out its own path down the walls and cracks of the dormitory.

I like being warm, inside. Shedding off my wet socks and settling down in front of a book and a cup of tea. I like being dry while it's raining outside. That sense of tiredness that you always get after coming in from the rain -- like after a swim at the pool, or a long day at the beach. I like not feeling guilty -- for not going out for the entire day. Just lounging around, sleeping in, listening to music. You can't call me antisocial. I get to be a homebody without judgement from others. Breathe, relax, and slow down.

My hands hate the rainy weather though. It cramps and stiffens. I think I might have arthritis like my mom, and her mom. So today I’ll just have to make do with typing out a journal entry instead of writing it by hand.

There’s something about the feel of a pen in your hand as it glides across the page though. Lifting up the pen, pausing, with the pen tip poised above the page – waiting, holding its breath. Something about the finality, the permanence. The need for certainty and precision to express your ideas, to not write too illegibly, to capture your thoughts, to not write too much, to find the right word, phrase, sentence, expression, idiom. What was that thought again? How did I phrase it before? Why didn’t I write it down then?

And as you press the pen tip back down, there’s a rush – thoughts that can’t be taken back because my OCD won’t allow me to rip out any part of my journal, cross anything out, or even use a pencil.