Today's commute turned into a game of "playing chicken with the rain." Sometimes those commutes are the most fun because, when I do manage to dodge the rain, I feel like a kid who's gotten away with something.
The first half-hour of my commute felt like a ride across a big lawn lined with rotating sprinklers. It seemed that, as soon as dewy drops evaporated from my nose and hands, I'd get spritzed with another quick round of moisture.
However, about half an hour into my ride, heavier rain dropped from the sky. Suddenly, I could just barely see ahead of me. I ducked under a canopy in front of a store. What kind of a store it was, I wasn't exactly sure. The sign advertised photo finishing and passport service; inside I saw a jewelery case, a couple of fax/copy machines and a couple of desks. And, although the store appeared to be open, I didn't see anybody--not even an employee--inside. I wanted to thank somebody for providing such a good canopy exactly when I needed one!
Anyway, the rain stopped, but I saw lightning flash about a mile or so away. I trusted-- for that moment, anyway-- the wisdom in the old wives' (how sexist!) tale of how lightning never strikes twice in the same place.
Then it was back to riding in and out of the invisible rotating sprinklers. It wasn't raining when I got to work. About an hour later, the sun was shining and my students were staring out the window as I was teaching them the most important things anybody would ever teach them. Well, I probably wasn't, really, but I have to make them--and myself--believe that. Right?