Rainy Days Are for Introverts

I don’t mind rainy days such as this, when the heavens give the earth a good rinsing—making sure to get behind the ears and eaves and to let the grass and trees steep in moisture until they smell even greener.

I don’t mind the gray skies or dark clouds obfuscating the sun’s brilliant wattage. I appreciate the opportunity to dress for warmth and take a cozy nap with the rain’s acoustic applause guiding me to slumber.

I like seeing the world fall wet, hearing the roll of tires on slick pavement, or smelling the dampening of the air. I’ll accept the invitation to stay indoors, explore a book (or the depths of my own mind), and slowly sip a cup of tea with a tablespoon of honey in it.

Rainy days are for introverts—so conducive to solitude and thought. I like looking through my rain-kissed windows and pondering a soggy world. Watching the umbrellas that go by bobbing at quick pace, some bright, so many black, a few adorned with polka dots. Seeing a child approach a puddle and splash right through with a smile of defiance. Observing owners dutifully walking dogs that are oblivious to the deluge—leisurely sniffing this tree, then that, in no particular rush to go home or be dried.

I don’t mind getting caught in the rain when I’m running—feeling it’s cool assault against my face, my clothes gradually growing damp and heavy—all the while listening to compelling music and imaging myself in a sports movie training montage. And if by chance I should be wearing a baseball cap whose brim becomes saturated and starts releasing droplets right before my nose, then that is the pièce de résistance—the rain making me feel more athletic.

I don’t mind rainy days at all. Even if I get drenched, even if the rains soak through every layer of my clothes until I feel a chill approach my bones, I can put my key in the lock, divest myself of my wet vestments, let the warm waters of my shower wash over me, and be happy that I am home.