It’s raining today. Grey clouds as far as the eye can see. Disgusting. But, it’s the perfect weather to read and sip on some hot chocolate, I think to myself. What does one read on a night such as this? A murder mystery? Some classic literature? Maybe poetry, or science fiction? My hand stops, hovering over a book. That book. As much as I want to detest it, I can’t. Sighing, I pick it out of the shelf and amble over to the couch. My alter ego and her friends made a unanimous decision to pick this book and much to my dismay, I’m a willing participant, giving in without a fight.
Page one.
Page thirty-two.
My eyes involuntarily roll to the back of my head. Romance is not my genre. I close my eyes, cursing at my conscience. Why do you have to be a cynic all the time? With a newfound determination, I silently vow to finish this chapter or at least the page I’m currently on. But I can’t. I hear the sound of dripping water. I’ve been reading the same sentence over and over again. I look up and see water seeping through a crack and dripping onto the window sill.
Plop plop plop
Scooting further back, I try to forget about it.
plop
Focus, I tell myself, it’s just rain.
Plop plop plop
That does it! I throw off my blanket and storm over to the window. Yanking hard at the handles, I pull hard, causing the windows to slam shut, startling the wasp that lives in the hole on the sill. I glare at the clouds through my window. The street is flooded. Tiny whirlpools swirl around potholes. I see my neighbour’s nightgown float merrily down the street. Poor Sheila Aunty. My hands are clammy and I feel bile rising in my throat as I look at the piling muck on the street. I hate the rain. I hate the rain. I. Hate. The. Rain.
If you couldn’t already tell, I despise rain. And before you can lecture me about the importance of rain and how much I should be grateful for it, I know.
But I really, really despise rain.
When I think back, I realize that I have no particular traumatic memory associated with rain. But for as far as I remember, I’ve hated rain from day one.
In kindergarten, I watched in horror as my friends jumped into puddles after school. Needless to say, our friendship was terminated the very next day.
In primary school, I’d be walking alongside my mum and when she’d turn around to hold my hand, she wouldn’t find me. The sheer panic on her face would quickly transform into anger and exasperation when she’d spot me way behind her, looking for a clean spot to step on, so that I wouldn’t have to walk on wet mud.
I have always hated the rain. Sure, I have fond memories of making paper boats on our balcony, watching as they dissolved and formed tiny paper turds. Nonetheless, I dislike rain. No amount of peer pressure could make me want to dance in the rain. You see puddles to skip across, I see soggy socks. I just radiate positivity, don’t I?
A few individuals have borne witness to my blood-curdling screams while wading through a flooded street. Some have also been on the receiving end of rude and unpleasant phrases, my rage unintentionally directed at them. Since one cannot differentiate between wet mud and animal faeces when it rains, many have unfortunately heard the not so quiet exclamations I make when I step on anything other than the pavement.
The rain certainly evokes dreadful emotions within me. Things that appeal to me about rain are few. The smell of mud for instance, or the optimism of the friend who believes that school will declare a holiday, or hot chocolate, and a movie.
I often wonder why I feel the way I do about rain. The most frequent deduction is, I’m a selfish little nitwit who disliked the fact that other people enjoyed rain, when my sordid self thought it was icky to get wet with my clothes on.
I would love to conclude this piece by saying that I’ve realised that rain is not so bad after all, and unfortunately, I’ve not had any divine revelation of that sort and continue to sulk like a child as I glare at the receding showers.
I hear thunder rumbling in the distance as I make my second mug of hot chocolate. Although every bone in my body detests rain, I cannot deny the fact that every time it rains, memories that I never knew existed would come flooding back, much like the sewer overflowing outside my house. Except, these are fond memories of simpler times.
It’s been five whole minutes and I haven’t frowned or complained. I sip my drink and continue to revel in the slideshow of memories playing in my head.
I may hate it but rain is the perfect excuse for one, two, no, five mugs of hot chocolate and for that, I am grateful.
