Before I say anything else, I want to say this with great finality: I love the rain, storms especially. I love to ride in a car (not drive) when its raining and hear the rain pound on the roof and watch it roll down the windows. I love to sit on my couch in the living room and read and drink something either warm or soporific and hear it pattering on the window. And sometimes I look up and watch it as it falls. I love to lie in bed in the dark and hear it drum on the roof and smack the windows, to feel the boom of thunder in my bones, to feel the electric jolt that sends through me, not of fear exactly, but maybe of excitement. And Clint and I both chuckle a little then at the way we've jumped and move closer together.
I don't even mind a solid weekend of rain. I'd rather have it rain now when it's coldish out than on a nice warm spring weekend when we had planned to be outside. And a rainy day when I'm at school is just depressing.
But something about this weekend has made me lazy. I slept this afternoon, and I have totally trashed the intention I made on Thursday (that first really nice day of the season) to run every day for the next two weeks. That resolution lasted two days. But it's so much nicer to run outside now than in, especially since the possiblity of running outside is so tantalizingly...well, possible. But not when it's raining.
So don't think this is a post that is complaining about the rain. It's not. I have loved the rain this weekend. It is, though, maybe, my way of justifying to myself why I have been lazy. And read a book and a half. And cooked a great dinner last night. And fixed our secondary laptop so it can access the internet. And typed up a handout for my Creative Writing class.
Huh. Maybe I haven't been so lazy after all.