So the (work) day finally ends. The rain, however has pelted down relentlessly, and the almost November-like atmosphere that has been created by the cold and dark does not dispell. Finally on the last leg of my trip homeward bound, my bus rounds the corner before my stop. I close my book (an Amitav Ghosh, for the record), put it into my bag, look out the window, deciding whether it is raining hard enough to warrant the use of the poor example of an umbrella that I have in my possession.
Flashback: 7 in the morning, slipping into my lovely comfortable flats, opening the front door and being assaulted with torrential rain. Closing the frontdoor to the barrage, then looking around for an umbrella; specifically MY umbrella.
Unfortunately, there are those whose voices I must heed, those who care about my well-being and health, and therein, their insistence that I carry an umbrella when it rains. (Not everyone is as hopeless a romantic as I am, tsk.) And it was to that finicky voice I bowed down, stuffed my stubbornness and impractical romanticism away, and relented to the usage of an umbrella.
Alas, in the rush of morning-bus-catchingness, I did not locate my sexy umbrella. I did spy, however, one of those pitiful specimens of its kind; the type which does justice to the cliche of "paying for quality". For the wretched green fellow was a member of the Dollar store family and as such, it was a weakling of a thing. Nevertheless, I grabbed hold of it, and opening the front door to the mastery of the skies, I quickly opened the umbrella to discover that one side, predictably, was already sagging.
With a shrug, in the pitter-patter, I set off to catch my morning bus.
So, reaching my stop, I step down, off the bus, and open my greenthingamajig (could it really be called, rightly, an umbrella? I was not sure). I set off down the street, on the usually nice 4-minute walk home.
I was assaulted. The pseudo-umbrella, for all the good that it could do, somewhat provided shelter for all the good of perhaps, and I am being very generous here, 9 seconds.
There was not a soul on to be seen. The streets had become rivers, and sidewalks streams. The skies were just a mass of bucket upon bucket pouring down, unabated. In the onslaught, I tried holding onto the sagging side of the umbrella in hopes that perhaps it would help; water poured down my upheld sleeves and down my arm, whilst attempting to touch ground again with my feet, as the wind attempted to woo me into a waltz.
I considered just closing the damn thing up and making a run for it. Then, in my head, I heard the voice. "Why didn't you use an umbrella?", it said dryly into my ear. I could hear the entire conversation that ended up into a fussy argument. I sighed to myself, and held the saggy umbrella up yet higher, narrowly avoiding a hanging metal rod hijacking my eye.
Another minute under the torrent, I had become entirely drenched. Water was everywhere; in my beloved flats, soaking my light spring jacket, running down the front and back of my shirt, trailing through my hair.
With a sigh, I finally gave it up. "I am sorry," I said to that voice of care. "But truly, there is no point anymore."
I closed the damn contraption and with a breath of pleasure, raised my face up freely to the shower.
Flashback: 7 in the morning, slipping into my lovely comfortable flats, opening the front door and being assaulted with torrential rain. Closing the frontdoor to the barrage, then looking around for an umbrella; specifically MY umbrella.
Now, the story about MY umbrella, as opposed to any other umbrella, goes like this: one day, I decided to invest in a wonderful and sexy umbrella. Not that it was much of a decision that involved a great amount of ruminating; rather, it involved one of many shopping splurges, wherein my eyes just fell upon this absolutely sexy, black and white, houndstoothed umbrella, and my heart said to me, "It belongs to you."
"Yes," I agreed. "I must have it."Unfortunately, I could not find my sexy little umbrella (little, because, it folds up into the tiniest little, convenient, compact thing). I was not surprised, because, honestly speaking, I am not so fond of carrying around an umbrella when most of the time I do not use it. Being a devoted lover of rain, I delight in being soaked by the deluge.
Unfortunately, there are those whose voices I must heed, those who care about my well-being and health, and therein, their insistence that I carry an umbrella when it rains. (Not everyone is as hopeless a romantic as I am, tsk.) And it was to that finicky voice I bowed down, stuffed my stubbornness and impractical romanticism away, and relented to the usage of an umbrella.
Alas, in the rush of morning-bus-catchingness, I did not locate my sexy umbrella. I did spy, however, one of those pitiful specimens of its kind; the type which does justice to the cliche of "paying for quality". For the wretched green fellow was a member of the Dollar store family and as such, it was a weakling of a thing. Nevertheless, I grabbed hold of it, and opening the front door to the mastery of the skies, I quickly opened the umbrella to discover that one side, predictably, was already sagging.
With a shrug, in the pitter-patter, I set off to catch my morning bus.
So, reaching my stop, I step down, off the bus, and open my greenthingamajig (could it really be called, rightly, an umbrella? I was not sure). I set off down the street, on the usually nice 4-minute walk home.
I was assaulted. The pseudo-umbrella, for all the good that it could do, somewhat provided shelter for all the good of perhaps, and I am being very generous here, 9 seconds.
There was not a soul on to be seen. The streets had become rivers, and sidewalks streams. The skies were just a mass of bucket upon bucket pouring down, unabated. In the onslaught, I tried holding onto the sagging side of the umbrella in hopes that perhaps it would help; water poured down my upheld sleeves and down my arm, whilst attempting to touch ground again with my feet, as the wind attempted to woo me into a waltz.
I considered just closing the damn thing up and making a run for it. Then, in my head, I heard the voice. "Why didn't you use an umbrella?", it said dryly into my ear. I could hear the entire conversation that ended up into a fussy argument. I sighed to myself, and held the saggy umbrella up yet higher, narrowly avoiding a hanging metal rod hijacking my eye.
Another minute under the torrent, I had become entirely drenched. Water was everywhere; in my beloved flats, soaking my light spring jacket, running down the front and back of my shirt, trailing through my hair.
With a sigh, I finally gave it up. "I am sorry," I said to that voice of care. "But truly, there is no point anymore."
I closed the damn contraption and with a breath of pleasure, raised my face up freely to the shower.
