Today, I sit at my desk in the back of our building, one of only two offices that is not insulated to keep the sounds out. I have a backdrop of pouring rain, sheets of rain, buckets of rain and I find it comforting. Last night, after my first trip to the gym (after an absence of 2 weeks), I was greeting by the sheets. Just the few feet to my car left my hair damp. The only thing I could think about, as I giddily dodged puddles, was putting on my rain boots, a rain coat and going for a walk. It was not that freezing cold rain that most Portlanders are used to, it was a warm rain. A rain that confuses the body and the eyes: "Ok, it's wet outside, it must be cold, I'll put on a sweater." I thought to myself this morning. Then the radio weather man, Matt Zaffino, announces that the high today is sixty. I stand in the middle of my bedroom for a few seconds, and rip my orange sweater off. "Well damn," I think, "I'm not wearing this. I'll sweat!" Out I pull a crocheted, short sleeved sweater from the summer time. This should suffice with my jeans and boots. I remember a few years back, when it had rained in January 30 days straight. 30 DAYS! At the time, I hadn't noticed it. I was at a new job that was completely out of my league, I was in a dead-end relationship, and I was living in an apartment that felt alien to me. I was so immersed in my own misery, that I didn't even notice the rain rather it felt more like the rain was just part of that dark time. Now, much happier, in a super cool place in a happy and fun relationship (same dude), I can take time to look at the rain and either yell at it for being so predictable, or commend it for being comforting in its attempts to bring the little kid in me, out to stomp the puddles.
So thanks rain, for always being a constant. Some days I hate you, and some days you're fun. We should hang out sometime, you, me and a couple of rain boots.