It happens often. I am due to meet a friend in town, a “nibling” in the park, or a date in the pub, when I see it out the window. The dark duvet of cloud spread across the sky.
Rain is on its way.
Having grown up in Ireland, I have inherited our native disdain for rainwear. Fashion, as they say, over function. Plus, do umbrellas really work on an island nation with an omni-present sea gust?
Do you want to be the fool momentarily staggered as the brolly blows back in your face?
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This, of course, creates a dilemma. The sky portends rain and my feeble immune system can’t handle a wetting. Alors, que faire?
What’s a gal to do?
Do I risk leaving the apartment without a raincoat? Dare I tempt my curls to succumb to frizz? And what about my legs? Damn, do I abandon the comfort of my home at all?
The solution is always the same. And generally leads to the same failed outcome. I begin by taking my phone out of my pocket and swipe along to the weather app. A little sun emoji appears. Grand. We’re in the clear. I can leave the rainwear at home.
Now, before you think I am totally ignorant, there are further steps to the process. It doesn’t begin and end here. The next step is to stand out on to the balcony. Here, I’ll reach an arm out to cop a feel of the air. Can I sense damp, weight or a feeling of closeness? Does a suggestion of rain meet my skin? At this point, I will also cast my eyes to the trees across the way. How light is their movement? What colour is the grass, and a quick scan to gauge the attire of the people down below.
[ I recently spent an afternoon sobbing over a very big bag of squidOpens in new window ]
The next stage of the process is a little like one of those beloved flow chart quizzes. The ones you did as a teen when you wanted to know if your crush liked you back or what your favourite movie was.
“Does your crush wait for you by the school gates?
Yes – he’s head over heels.
No – he’s playing hard to get” (it was the early noughties, it was assumed your crush was a “he”.)
If no rain meets my hand, I’m good to go. If, on the other hand, a few droplets tickle my palm, I’ll follow the next step; check my phone again.
The sun emoji is still beaming back at me.
All right, we’re good to go.
It’s usually about 400m up the road that it begins. The light sprinkle that descends into downpour. My hair begins to stick to the side of my face. My jeans become soggy. Mascara drips down my cheeks.
I’ll convince myself it is just a passing shower. A hiccup is all. Those dark clouds will soon part to reveal the sunshine my phone has promised.
As my T-shirt turns transparent, a niggle of worry beds its way in. I’ll carry on for probably another 200m or so before, finally, I admit defeat.
Oh well.
Beidh lá eile ag an bPaorach.
Back home, I’ll shower or change my clothes, text to reschedule my planned date and check the weather app again. Sunshine. How did the sky get it so wrong?
So it was this scenario that came to my mind recently, as I sat in a new neurologist’s office and he began to ask about my migraine “triggers”.
“Are you avoiding them?” he began with.
I replied that, I was, as far as possible, but as he might understand, some triggers are beyond my control. When he raised an eyebrow to this response, I expanded, that the more humid and stormy weather of recent summers has been bad for my migraine.
“I don’t think there’s any real evidence for that,” he responded, before asking me if I ate chocolate.
Funny, I thought, to allow a dearth of “evidence” to not only trump, but negate what you have experienced to be true.
At what point, when we see rain out the window, do we simply accept that it is raining?
After all, you can take a chance with the weather, but when it’s you who’s in for the wetting, well, you might just choose to err on the side of experience.