We pick the absolute worst times to go out and do things. This is not an exaggeration. Whether it’s through rush hour traffic or severe storms, you name it. If a meteor was about to crash into Earth, that exact moment is when we would step outside of the house. It’s a knack we seem to bear.
This blazing talent was put into effect this past weekend. All we wanted to do was get the boys’ hair cut. Easy enough in theory, and very much needed. It had been sprinkling a little before we left, but according to the weather map should have been clearing soon.
Do not trust the weather map.
We got wet as we left the house, strapping the kids in their carseats. It was raining even harder by the time we arrived at the salon. After Buzz’s frenzied conniption as his strands fell to the floor, we decided on lunch down the plaza, the main part of which is without a balcony. J, ever the optimist or maybe just delusional, says “we can make it”. At this point, it was a constant downpour. So we run.
We didn’t make it.
We ran a few stores down before J and the boys, who were ahead of Abby and I, broke for cover. Shoppers huddled in the doorway stared and laughed as we entered, dripping wet. Soaked. Cold. Like sad, drowned dogs. Our shoes squeaking with each step. We do make it to lunch eventually, although quite uncomfortably as my drenched jeans cling tightly to my legs and everyone is shivering. And then, just like that, the sun came out. Of course it did.