I'm ashamed to admit that I've broken my own rules again. I'm so overwhelmed with my wedding in 20 days that adding a new thought to my brain is like adding another box to that floor-to-ceiling stack of pizza boxes in every bachelor's first apartment. Rather than give you nothing here's something I wrote back in 2009 which I just spent a while adding to and cleaning up. -T
Umbrellas + Dancing
On sunny days we avoid our gaze and let ourselves drift past, but rainy days require precaution: At worst if two should enter the same sidewalk square our tines may lock and cross ensnare; at best they might bother and spill droplets on each other. Also beware of condescension of condensation. First circumvent your consternation, I have a thought for consideration: The deluge extends a crook'd handle like an eager suitor. It invites a change from the hustle and bustle, to perform a dance called the umbrella shuffle.
Your partner for this do-si-do is a self-supported tarpaulin stretched taught on an aluminum skeleton. The nylon drizzle dome, tickled by the torrent, pining for the pour, and mooning for a monsoon will tug your wrist with gyroscopic force as you twirl beneath the baldaquin of your target destination. But you are not alone on this dance floor the dimensions of a storefront door. As you advance through your step-sheathe-shake, which has allowed you to make the timely transition through thresholds; you eventually must navigate an equilibrist attempting their egress, for there is always that moment in time and space when two umbrelli want to occupy the same place.
I am not ashamed to admit that I calculate my steps in an effort to force consent and cause a transitional accident. For in that line between wet and dry, we are obligated to meet eye to eye. Although this damp door dance may precipitate an uncomfortable instant under awnings, I know it can alleviate something lost in life's kerfuffle, and that’s why I love the umbrella shuffle.