Day 5 without the sun and I’m about ready to curl up in a corner with a Faulkner novel and die. For the past 96 hours my world has been oppressed by low clouds, temperatures in the 50’s, and unrelenting drizzle. Everything is saturated with heavy moisture, and the entire universe smells like that old pair of tennis shoes that you cut the grass in after you accidently left them outside in the rain. At this point I would be thrilled to see even a cloud, anything would be an improvement over the thick charcoal grey canopy of doom hanging over formerly beautiful downtown Short Pump.
To make matters worse, I had my lawn aerated and seeded two weeks ago yesterday, and haven’t been able to cut it since. Now it looks like a field of soy beans out there, thick and gnarly and growing more unmanageable by the minute. I stare at it through the rain-streaked windows and can practically hear it mocking me.
The longer this goes on the more British I feel. “Buck up, old boy,” I encourage myself. For the poor Brits, this is a way of life. I pop in a Downton Abbey DVD and notice the relentless rain as Matthew and Lady Mary stand over the grave of the dear departed Lavinia, umbrellas in their gloved hands, and think how lucky I am not to live in such a place. “Quite right,” I reassure myself.
Still, although I know that surely the sun will return any day now, I grow more annoyed with each new wave of rain. If there were any justice in this world, the entire United States would be enjoying 60 degrees and crisp, bright sunshine, and this dreariness would be limited to the 68 square miles that is the District of Columbia.