Rain: I Like It

I know I’m such a sicko, but I love the rain.

I don’t love it if I have to walk around NYC all day, although I did have a chuckle this summer when I walked a few blocks for takeout in a drizzle in NYC, and on the way home, the rain and wind kicked up. I had to walk with my umbrella horizontal while rain pelted me. I couldn't see where I was going, and my jeans got soaked up to the knees. I was staying alone at my friend's apartment, so I had no one to complain to.  All I could do was find it funny.

I do like rain when I’m home. Right now, I’m in my house, it’s raining, and I’m cozy. Still, I see how sun cheers some people up. Not me; I’m prone to carcinoma. I only like the sun if there’s a good reason for it, like a ride on a friend’s boat, tennis in the morning, or a Memorial Day BBQ. Maybe I do like sun.

But rain is beautiful. At this time of year, fall, it’s beautiful. Winter rain? Not as nice because it freezes and driving gets sketch. That’s short for sketchy. My younger sister inspired me a couple of years ago with “whatev,” and now I abbreviate whatever I want. Yesterday I said, “… or is it my imag?” Why add the extra 3 syllables if everyone knows what you mean? I challenge you to find some cut-offable words in your life.

Oh- and I like dramatic rain. It poured last… Friday? Monday? And it was grand! The leak in our ceiling ratcheted up, but it’s a rental, and the drip is always in that one place, so whatev. Just put a towel town.

And you know what, we should appreciate this rain. Soon it’s going to be snow, and not even snow; it’s going to be that gross slushy mix that makes driving hard, then it freezes overnight on your car!!! Rain, on the other hand, is both pretty and convenient: you’ll never have to shovel it out of your driveway at 6 am before struggling to work. What’s wrong with rain?

I think my love of rain may have started with a Langston Hughes poem, which I saw on one of those large easels when I volunteered at a second grade classroom in college. Anton and I worked or writing, and he did a great job. One day he wanted to show me his new puppy, so we walked over to his house across the street. He went in and got the puppy, and I got in a pet or two before his mom screamed at him from somewhere in the apartment. As he shut the door on me, he gave me a scared look that said, “sorry,” and I could tell he was mortified. I have never forgotten that look. When I think of Anton, I think of this poem. I only remembered the last line, but a few years ago I came across the whole poem.

Let the rain kiss you
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops
Let the rain sing you a lullaby
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk
The rain makes running pools in the gutter
The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night
And I love the rain