06-01-00
After all of the talk about the horrid drought conditions, yesterday made a lovely day for walking in the rain. I personally don't mind getting my feet wet and carrying an umbrella. The sky was so dark that it looked like dusk, and everyone drove around with their headlights on. The rain pelted the earth with such a fury that the storm drains and gutters were overflowing, and the sidewalks all looked like angry ankle-deep rivers as their contents flowed downstream to the inevitable oceans and seas. The world was wet and gray and hazy, and I walked along with my bag on my left arm, umbrella in hand, listening to Madonna's Ray of Light on my discman, my right arm dancing and snaking around in the air with the rhythm of the music. This was a singular joy; the warm wetness of the water swelling and cascading over my feet and sandals, swirling around my ankles and splashing softly against my calves like waves breaking on boulders, the rapid stacatto of the rain striking my unfurled umbrella, in my ears the rapturous trill of Madonna beseeching me to dive on down to the ocean's floor with her.
I wanted to drop my umbrella and bag, and twirl around in the rain until I was soaked to the bone, splashing in the puddles and kicking up a storm of my own, but instead I chose the responsible task of going to work and doing my job. But for an instant, I paused outside of the post office, closed my eyes and hummed along with the music, letting my umbrella dip enough that the rain grazed my right shoulder and my jacket became wet. That was almost enough.
