I remember loving the rain. Even in college, when the sky would open up and dump a deluge on us, I would go outside shirtless and embrace the rain; I would let the wind kiss me with shivers; I would stare up into the sky and feel the electricity of the lightning, inhale the salty breeze coming off the coast and smile at the sounds of thunder.
Now I just get wet. And my freshly drycleaned suit gets wet. And I get pissed. And I miss being a kid.
But more than being a kid, I miss caring.
I miss caring about the weather. I miss caring about the water table and the manatee and the orange blossoms and the Everglades and the beaches.
I miss caring if the girl I wanted to fuck actually liked me, I miss caring about my grades (I even miss being graded a little), I miss caring about whether or not my piece of shit car would start. I miss caring about seeing the sun set over water and I miss caring about who I saw that sunset with.
As we age, the poetry fades.
Today, after busting on financials until 5 PM, I left work in the middle of deluge. My car needed gas, so I followed the logical tip and went to a gas station.
Walking from the covered pumps to pay the dude behind the counter left me soaked through my freshly drycleaned fucking suit.
“Hey man,” said the foreign clerk. “You ain't supposed to be dealing with the elements; you a college man.”
“Fuck you, Miguel.”
“You have a nice day, too. Paper Pusher.”
It sucks hating the rain. But more to the point, it sucks knowing that the nineteen year-old you would absolutely fucking hate the grown up you.
Fucking rain, man.