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.
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