Yesterday I stepped out of the library to meet a goose-drownder of a downpour. And like every other student caught without an umbrella, I greeted it with an exasperated sigh or two. Why did I choose today to leave my umbrella at home? Why did it have to start raining now? I stood at the edge of the covered walkway, grumbling and bracing myself to make a run for it. But even as I contemplated the falling sheets with rising resentment, I came to a mildly horrifying realization: I was being a boring, stuffy old grown-up.
I love storms and rain and wind. I always have. And not just looking out through the window--I was out in the damn stuff all the time, splashing in the puddles and catching drops on my tongue and generally making my mom certain I'd catch my death of a cold. What the hell did I care if my natty ponytail or my beat-up cut-offs got a little damp? Maybe the world has taught me to grow up a little too well. I watched poor souls skitter across the open square; hunched and miserable, they were only trying to get to the next shelter as quickly as possible.
Screw that.
And so I walked--no, I sauntered out into the rain. I admired the marbled grey sky and appreciated the cool patter of water on my arms and face. When I was certain no one was watching, I did a little pirouette. And of course, I managed to get at least one excellent puddle splash in. By the time I made it home, my clothes were sodden and my glasses nearly useless. But damn if that wans't the best walk home I'd had in quite a while.
