We have been experiencing some very strange weather in these parts as of late. I’m actually quite concerned regarding the mental health of our local weather god, Mister Weather (appropriate name, no?). Something is very wrong. Very, verywrong. We go from a bright, sun-filled sky to monsoon-like winds to torrential downpours in mere minutes of every day. I’m beginning to suspect that Mister Weather is suffering psychotic episodes of some sort. Or perhaps a bad breakup with Mother Earth. An interrupted romance can create all kinds of havoc on someone’s mindset.
Now, normally, these crazy weather patterns are not such a problem for me. I hunker down in my cozy home wearing sweatpants and watch the phenomenon from my family room window. Dry. But today? Today was very different.
We were out of milk.
And this is simply not an option in this household. Jack has an unatural relationship with milk. It. Completes. Him. He starts panicking when we’re halfway through a gallon and there’s no spare in sight. Not wanting to risk Jack’spotential ‘lack of availablelactose’ behavior I determined that a trip out into the mayhem was in order.
I waited and watched, planning my trip for when the rain had abated. Seeing nothing but spotty cloudsI threw on a sweatshirt and made a mad dash to the car.
In the rain.
I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned that I have a special “gift.” At any given point in time, if I step out of doors, Mister Weather is alerted of my presence and sends rain showers to water the Earth around me. It happens all of the time. We could be experiencing periods of drout, rain having not touched the ground in days, and I step outside to get the mail and it will start pouring. And I will be without an umbrella. It’s a cruel “gift”, really.
Today was no exception. By the time I made it inside my car from the front porchI was literally dripping. From my mascara-coated eyelashes. Not a good look.
I began my drive to the grocery store, marveling but not surprised, at the sudden clearing of clouds and the emerging of blue sky visible through my windshield. Of course. I’m inside.
I reached the store and sat with my hand on the door handle, contemplating my exit. It appeared as if I was in the clear and I dashed into the store.
Aha! Take that, Mister Weather!
I strutted over to the milk case and grabbed my three gallons, a definitive pep in my step. As I paid for my milk I couldn’t help but notice the store clerk averting her gaze from my face. Oh, crap. In my haste to beat feet to the door I had forgotten about the blue/black mascara now streaking down my cheeks and the half-soaked, half-frizzed hair sticking out of the top of my head. Again. Not a good look.
Embarrassed, I gingerly paid for my milk and approached the door, car keys in hand. With a glance at the suddenly graying sky, I stepped outside the store and into what quickly became a torrential downpour. I was standing five feet from my car door, balancing three gallons of milk on my hip, and feeling utterly defeated.
Damn this special “gift.”
Is three years-old too young to make a milk run? I’m seriously considering it.