Tonight I was walking down the sad residential stretch of Mass Ave in Arlington with a fair amount of celebratory wine in me when it started to rain. A brisk, wind-driven rain that hung in the air: slightly frozen, almost perfunctory, resolutely March rain.
I am no stranger to walking in the rain. I marched up Mount Cabot in a relentless torrent. I did the entire Inca Trail in insane unseasonable showers. Being wet isn’t so bad so long as there is the imminent prospect of dry. One time, in Santa Barbara, I convinced Mr. P to go jogging on the beach with me. In the RAIN. When we returned to our hotel, I shoved my camera in his damp, shaky hands and insisted he take a picture of me because the only dry spot on my shirt was in my armpits, which the exact opposite of the typical running sweat-aftermath. He dropped the camera and it promptly broke. I could not blame it on him. I blamed it… ON THE RAIN.
I found walking in the rain down Mass Ave to be invigorating, affirming. It was seeping through my hair. It was dripping down my chin. I pulled my purse under my arm and started to run. Now, I’ve read that one will get equally wet running in the rain as they would walking — something having to do with physics, which I do not purport to understand — but the rain gave me an excuse to run, because in normal weather, women wearing short skirts and clogs do not gallop down the sidewalk. Unless:
(That video was directed by the most famous alumnus from my high school, Eric Wareheim, king of the AV club and high school sweetheart of my BFF. I’m sure he would be contemptuous to know that this video will almost certainly serve as inspiration during my next trail race… not the “shanking the crotch” part, of course, but the running, running, running for my life, pretending the footfalls behind me are bearing a machete).
