This morning it was raining. Now rain is not an unusual event, though it is slightly inconvenient to plans and picnics. However, the rain this week had been quite courteous and held off its drizzle till I was safely at work, and I thus enjoyed the storm-swirled air without soaking my hair before work. Not so this morning. No, this morning it was raining just around seven thirty-five, when I walk to work.
Now the rain in part may be excused, for I had not intended to walk to work this morning. The friend to whom I lent my car was in the hospital, and had no further need of my lovely mechanical luxury. I had reclaimed it--or rather, a sister had gone and fetched it for me and brought it home. But last morning I had found, on the way to the gym, that it was even more disinclined to exertion than I was, even at five forty-five in the morning (cars, after all, never keep good time, so time in the short term should not affect them). I took it home and let it sit. Hence, I was without the luxury of sitting and moving, and had instead the luxury of walking (for I can never walk somewhere without an excuse for doing so now; such is a sad fact of life). So I put on my black leather jacket and went out.
To the porch, that is. The rain was coming down, not hard, but constantly, and even I could see the foolishness of walking to a professional place in without protection. Then I bethought me of a gift I had hanging on a hanger downstairs (underneath my belts, since I never use it). It was a bright pink umbrella.
Now all of you know me well, and know that I detest and despise three things that come immediately to mind: scarves, umbrellas, and pink. The umbrella I own I believe was given to me by Liz (I think it was because she always threatened to give me scarves, and it was in Budapest that I was going to use the umbrella, so I associate it with her), who got it from the free pile. Well, Liz would be proud of me for using it, and I was ready for something absurd, so I went, swinging my six belts off onto my bed, and taking the umbrella. (It is a very noticeable pink, especially on a cloudy day). I went back upstairs, grabbed my tan and brown Guatemala/llama purse that bulged from the water jar inside it, put that over my black leather jacket, and snuck past my mother (who would immediately offer me a ride, and I have yet to persuade her that doing something absurd is not only more fun, but better for the soul, than being sensible). I went out the door and walked down our street.
I won't pretend I didn't regret my choice, as I walked in white formal sandals (a strap with a gold buckle around the heel, of course), black capris, black leather jacket, brown/tan purse, and pink umbrella, especially as the one broken metal line clinked in my ear at every step. But I eventually started laughing inwardly at the picture I made, laughing--until I got to Ashworth Road, the four lane street I had to run across. With a pink umbrella held like a flag around my head. Or perhaps until I got to the trees, the wet limbs brushing low enough that my umbrella hit the top of my head in its attempts to avoid them. But then I laughed all the more, though a part of me wondered how many of the many cars held coworkers who knew I walked, and who would be staring at me in disbelief. I shook it off. After all, it had been too long since I had been absurd--and I was enjoying my walk in the rain. The scent of tulips--have you ever smelled them in the rain? Walking past, I enjoyed it for a moment, and then another smell overpowered it--most likely the lovely magnolia tree a few feet ahead. I continued walking and smiled, for I was literally walking on flower petals, a romantic dream come true--until I slipped on one and nearly fell. I shook my head--the prosaic always ruins the romance.
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