I am not a particularly sunny person; in fact, I can be downright dark. I like rain. Rain can be fun, but even Bea Arthur liked a little sun every now and then. Today marks—I am not sure—the umpteenth day of rain since my arrival in Europe. And I cannot take it anymore.
My shoes are wet. My pants are wet. My hair is wet. And I can feel my soul becoming wet. All I ask is for one solid week of perfect weather.
One week where I do not start my walk to the big box store with a cloudless sky and finish the mile having waded through varying degrees of rain, sleet, and snow. One day where I only have to dry my hair once. One hour where I do not even have to think about my umbrella. Just one.
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