Blame It On the Rain

I’m soaked.

I’m irritated.

But the two are unrelated.

The fact that dirty New York drizzle is mingling with sweat and tracing the curves of my face, the fact that my pants are warm and clinging sickly to my legs, that’s not what has me aggravated. I don’t mind being soggy. No, what annoys me is that Mother Nature thinks she is out on a first date and can only get a salad. She says she’s fine, that she ate earlier, that maybe she’ll try a bit of my steak but really she isn’t too hungry.

Whatever. Get the stuffed chicken like you know you want because I’m not missing my favorite song at the concert later so I can go buy your ass a ten-dollar hot dog. Stop worrying. You’re not fat. And what will get you that way isn’t eating a good meal; it’s missing out on one and then trying to replace it later with a cheeseburger or a Twix.

I don’t have much experience in this area, but I’m told women never listen. And it would be a crushing blow to my wild imagination to think that Mother Nature is not telepathic, so I have to believe that she is, and that she heard me, and that she didn’t listen. She’s made a home in the in-between. And so now the streets of New York have been lifted from the face of Manhattan. They have floated on an airy mist toward the heavens, but have stopped just short. Madison Avenue, 44^th Street, Bryant Park, they are all in limbo. It’s dreary and damp. It’s not raining, but it’s not not raining. It seems like a decent equilibrium until I notice my pants are still wet. So I’m starting to wonder what exactly the point is.

Last weekend I was caught in a sudden downpour. I ran barefoot along a darkened street as lukewarm torrents sliced through the cloth on my back. It rained fiercely, like it had something to prove. There wasn’t a dry thread on my body. Now that was a meal.

But this salad nonsense, this lazy dance in the drizzle with one shoe on… If you want it to rain, make it rain. Show me your fury. Impress me! Cleave these gray clouds with white hot light! I want to feel the thunder echo down the avenue and rumble in my chest! I want to see the trees bow down to you, like you know they will. I want to stand with open arms as you flood the streets and ruin my brand new shoes. So get to it!

Otherwise, back off. Let me see the sun. I have limited time on my lunch break and I don’t want to spend it needlessly opening and closing an umbrella. Roll this mist away. Burn off the padded fog and lay the streets of New York back down where they belong, nestled against the banks of the stinking Hudson. Exhale. Give me some sun.

But oh, how I wish it would rain.