Ever since moving to New York, I've realized that when it rains, the raindrops never hit the windows with the comforting pitter patter I constantly look forward to during these types of stormy weather days in Texas. I never know that it's raining anymore when I'm indoors, unless I squint and really focus my eyes on the falling drops.
One of the reasons I love rainy days is because being indoors in the middle of a storm is one of the most comforting feelings ever. The sound of the light thumps against my window pane assure me that I'm safe inside. It's almost like an analogy for yin and yang; you don't really understand good if you've never experienced evil.
But here in New York, there have been multiple times where I'm caught off guard by the rain. I'll take a quick glance outside to judge the weather, and the transparent raindrops camouflage into the backdrop of daylight, painting a fictitious image of clear skies, so I go outside, wearing flats, clutching a purse with everything but an umbrella, and step out into the pouring onslaught. It's the annoyed disposition that everyone who's lived in New York for over a year eventually and inevitably absorbs that prepossesses me to just commit and make it through the weather because there's no way I'm going back up 24 floors again just to get an umbrella, even though I won't stop complaining about not having an umbrella for the rest of the day, New York style.
But maybe the quietness with which it rains in New York is its own analogy. Terribleness is just a nonchalant part of life here and is no excuse to stop you from going on with your normal life just to enjoy yourself.
After four years in New York, is anyone enjoying themselves anymore?
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