The romantic appeal of walking in the rain with your sweetheart has been grossly overstated.
Big, cold drops hitting the back of your white cotton shirt and plastering it, one blotch at a time, to your increasingly clammy skin. The curtain of drips falling from the brim of your broad-brimmed hat (your white sun hat, worn because the morning was so bright and sunny when you left the house). The creeping wetness across the back of your shorts.
And above all, the squishiness inside your walking shoes. That would be the nearly new, rather expensive “country hikers” you bought for their ruggedness without thinking there was any need for them to be waterproof. Not that it would matter if they were. Whatever water is seeping into them from below is insignificant compared to the amount trickling down your bare legs and filling the shoes from the top. Your socks gradually become sodden sponges, and with every step you can feel water spurting out from beneath your toes.
Gene Kelly notwithstanding, there is nothing romantic about any of this.
Okay, time to stop whining and get back to reality. We merely went out for a walk on a sunny summer morning and happened to get caught by a fast-moving shower that sneaked up on us from an unexpected direction. It poured for the last half-mile of our walk, then, having drenched us thoroughly, stopped just as we turned into our own driveway. I swear that last peal of thunder was really a deep-throated chuckle.
But we weren’t out on the road on a motorcycle. Or driving cattle. Or hauling bales. Or checking up on elk or buffalo or tourists. Or standing at a construction site holding a “slow” sign for drivers that splashed us as they went by. Or doing any of the outdoor jobs that don’t stop just because the people doing them might get a little—or a lot—wet. Jobs that some of us, sitting at our nice dry desks in nice dry clothes after our nice warm showers, don’t have to do.
Thanks to them all. May they be blessed with good raincoats, waterproof boots, and dry socks.