Last night I was caught outdoors in an African thunderstorm across campus away from my home.
I walked for 20 minutes in a very, very heavy downpour, the kind that blows sideways and renders your umbrella useless.
As an adult, one tries not to be destroyed by weather. I felt like my eight year old self walking home from elementary school, laughing out loud to myself at the ridiculousness of how wet I was getting. My eight year old self liked it better. It was dark, it was loud, and I couldn’t move fast enough. When I stepped off the first curb in the dark into an unseen four-inch lake I knew it was useless to pretend that I would get home dry. Never stopping, and plowing forward, I reversed my backpack and hugged it to my chest, moved my wallet to my front side pocket on the lee side of the blowing rain, lowered my head under the umbrella, and launched through the lake.
It was shocking to pass others, the few, moving through the storm like me, scurrying like bugs with our heads down.
I arrived at my front door and tumbled inside. My boots were soaked, my socks were soaked, my jeans were soaked, as was my underwear. My shirt was soaked through, and my undershirt. The phrase ‘wringing wet’ is accurate. Cotton socks can hold a great deal of water.
I haven’t been so soaked through to the skin in years.
What can you do? Put on dry clothes.