Who'll stop the rain?
I knew, the first year of living in Northern California, that the winters would be wet and stormy, the summers hot and clear.
I've been here for nine years now.
And I'm sick and fucking tired of the rain.
I've been back from Italy nearly three weeks. It's rained every single day, save for two. Beautiful days where I got out to hike and snowshoe. Hell, I even redid the flowerbeds for the spring (whenever that is).
Mostly, I've come down with seasonal depression disorder.
(Maybe that should be capitalized. I dunno.)
Everyone's mood is "on-edge." Smiles evaporate in a moment's notice. Nerves are like a slab of raw chicken.
No one is happy.
And how can you be happy when a half-inch of rain is falling on you every day?
Oh, you try. You tell yourself that this is weather and it'll pass soon enough. You joke with co-workers that we'll all be wishing for that wet spring, when it's July and there's not a breeze to be found and the temperature is 116 degrees in the shade (and we again make news for being the hottest place on the planet; yeah, laugh, but it's happened before).
There's nothing to be done but wait it out.
Before you slit your wrists and pick up a Mac-10 and start spraying the office with small-arms fire.
No one is having fun. Oh, I've tried. I rode in the rain on Saturday. My mountain bike shoes are still sodden - there's too much moisture in the air to get them to dry. I thought about taking the dogs for a walk yesterday - between storms - but it never let up.
(My poor dogs are starting to atrophy before my very eyes).
I keep thinking of a science fiction short story I read as a kid. Ray Bradbury’s “The Long Rain.” Short plot – three guys crash-land on Venus, a planet of perpetual rain. They all – save for one succumb to the unending rain.
I’m hoping to be that lone survivor in this current stretch of gloom.
I've been here for nine years now.
And I'm sick and fucking tired of the rain.
I've been back from Italy nearly three weeks. It's rained every single day, save for two. Beautiful days where I got out to hike and snowshoe. Hell, I even redid the flowerbeds for the spring (whenever that is).
Mostly, I've come down with seasonal depression disorder.
(Maybe that should be capitalized. I dunno.)
Everyone's mood is "on-edge." Smiles evaporate in a moment's notice. Nerves are like a slab of raw chicken.
No one is happy.
And how can you be happy when a half-inch of rain is falling on you every day?
Oh, you try. You tell yourself that this is weather and it'll pass soon enough. You joke with co-workers that we'll all be wishing for that wet spring, when it's July and there's not a breeze to be found and the temperature is 116 degrees in the shade (and we again make news for being the hottest place on the planet; yeah, laugh, but it's happened before).
There's nothing to be done but wait it out.
Before you slit your wrists and pick up a Mac-10 and start spraying the office with small-arms fire.
No one is having fun. Oh, I've tried. I rode in the rain on Saturday. My mountain bike shoes are still sodden - there's too much moisture in the air to get them to dry. I thought about taking the dogs for a walk yesterday - between storms - but it never let up.
(My poor dogs are starting to atrophy before my very eyes).
I keep thinking of a science fiction short story I read as a kid. Ray Bradbury’s “The Long Rain.” Short plot – three guys crash-land on Venus, a planet of perpetual rain. They all – save for one succumb to the unending rain.
I’m hoping to be that lone survivor in this current stretch of gloom.
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