...Everything.
I wish I looked this cute post torrential downpour.
No, really. I've been umbrella-less for like a month, playing a dangerous game of Russian roulette that involves walking out the door every day of the week, knowing full well that it's going to rain, and just hoping to God that it doesn't between the time I walk from the subway station to work and back again.
I'd say that, for the most part, I'm doing pretty well. The rain has only beaten me, like, 4 times at the most. Granted, one time it packed quite a wallop. [Anthropologie Manager: "Uhhh, you might want to check the mirror before you go out on the floor. Your mascara is all over your face." Oops.] But for a month that is essentially a big "Eff you" to global warming disbelievers everywhere (Are the polar bears sunning themselves up there at least? That's my question...), I'd say I'm coming up even in a fight against Mother Nature that's hardly fair.
Wait. Let's pause to giggle at the idea of polar bears with sunglasses and mojitos with mini umbrellas in them. Ugh, I can't even laugh! I'm too jealous.
Unfortunately, today was one of those days that Mother Nature did NOT decide to cut me some slack and keep me dry. I wore little gladiator sandals and a dress that is, essentially, paper-thin and as cute as it is inappropriate when soaked. Which, of course, prompted a few comments during my 15 minute shower... I mean... walk to the subway after leaving my internship. And while I meandered to the subway, pausing under awnings when the downpour was simply too much to bear, I started thinking about the way the rain changes this city and the people who live in it. It's just funny how people act when they're wet.
Like me, for example. Sometimes (if it's been a bad day already) I just give in to looking downtrodden. Drowned rat. And as much as I try to tell myself I look like a goddess - Venus rising up from the sea... Bo Derek emerging from the ocean... Ariel from The Little Mermaid sparkling midair... I know it's not true. I end up looking more wet dog or floppy fish or frizzy hair. Pictures from childhood to adulthood taken at my grandparents' pool have given me stone cold proof that "wet" is never going to be my best look. I mean, Jessica Alba can dribble like a decrepit octogenarian and she ends up in GQ. Oh, the unfairness of it all.
However, this is not about Jessica Alba and her ability to make gargling sexy. (Or ridiculous. I'm not really a fan of the GQ spread, myself.) New Yorkers change when it pours. The subway station is a sad place to be, like a war zone. Like reconvening in the trenches after enemy fire has died down. Everywhere, hairdos along the platform are mussed and frizzed. Expensive suits are wrinkled and dripped on. High heels are muddied. And the funny thing is, people aren't angry. There's no typical NYC ass-kicking feistiness. They're just... sad. Today everyone mushed themselves onto the crowded downtown C train and not a single person was in a huff about being poked with an umbrella. They were all just kind of persevering, as if the musty train that smelled a little like towels that had been kept in a humid bathroom for a month was just adding insult to injury. With my face stuck in the armpit of some damp-smelling guy who looked like Lurch, I realized riding that train was like watching the straw break the camel's back, 100 times over. Poor, sad C train.
Except I wasn't really feeling sad and down. Even though I could feel my dress sticking to my legs and some stupid woman more than brushed her slimy umbrella against me, I felt kind of... primal. That's the only real word to describe it. The heavy rain breaks something in me - the desire to be perceived as a normal person with a sense of decency. Bottom line: Once my dress is see-through, who cares? Once I'm running down the street jumping puddles, I might as well jump them with style. It may have helped that between the dress and the sandals and the little braided headband I was sporting I already had a serious Flower Child vibe going on, but what I really wanted to do was take off my shoes and dance in the mud and embrace the rain. Roll in it. Splash in it. I wanted someone to sweep me off my feet in the rain and hug me and love me and enjoy how nice and cool it feels on your skin in the summer heat. That's the problem with rain in the city - you're too busy wondering if people can see your panty lines or if your shoes will be ruined to just pause and think about how good it feels. It's a race to get to the other side of the sidewalk, to the scaffolding, before the big bad rain can catch you.
While I was doing just that - racing to a piece of awning, actually - some guy walked past me with a humongous umbrella and decided that, obviously, by the state of my clothing and the fact that I was contemplating walking into the downpour, I needed some convincing. So as he walked past, Mr. Big Ass Umbrella said, "It's just water!" I, of course, answered "Can you leave me alone, please?" But as he walked away, I really just wanted to throw down my purse, remove my shoes, run after him and shove that big, stupid umbrella You Know Where. If you only know me from my blog, you may think this is a possibility considering my Rat Broiling fantasies. But if you know me in real life, you know for sure that I'm never going to be shoving people's umbrellas in places where the sun doesn't shine. (Even though, right now, places where the sun DOES shine are few and far between.) But after a few hours to contemplate Mr. Big Ass Umbrella and his obnoxious comment, I'm taking it to heart. It's just water. For the sake of looking semi-decent in the work place, I'm going to buy an umbrella. But maybe the next time it downpours I'll head outside to my backyard and sit in the rain and let it do what it does. Because hey, it's just water.
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