If you are like me, the thought of multiple rainy days in a row leaves you feeling blah…not to mention those allergies that, instead of going away after a storm, only get worse.  If you are like my friend Melissa, however, you rejoice in them.  She loves rainy days and, although I’ve asked her, I don’t think that I’ve ever gotten an answer that would satisfy my question (the downfall of being such a good question asker).  To me, a rainy day equals a day to stay at home and be lazy, to venture out only when and if you want to (possibly without an umbrella to feel the rain on your face), and to be in the company of either a significant other or a close friend.  I find that during the work week, rainy days make me very unproductive (kind of like Mondays or coming back from a three-day weekend).

Normally May is the month where the flowers bloom, the bugs get more prevalent and, more importantly, the spring showers cease.  This year that is simply not the case: we had a very dry April, and March.  In fact, we hadn’t had much precipitation in a long time.  Of course, seeing as how my birthday falls in April and I’ve had many rainy ones (and one snow day), and the fact that we barely had any snow all winter, or a real winter for that matter, I do not mind as much as I used to.  One of the reasons for this is that I’ve developed a rainy day outfit.

The number one thing (besides hair, which also can be fixed) that I hate about the rain, particularly heavy rain, is my feet getting wet and staying wet throughout the day.  There is nothing worse than going about your day with soggy shoes that you cannot take off; it is bound to make anyone miserable.  Clothes will dry (eventually), but shoes tend to stay wet.  This is where rain-boots come in.  For years I was against rain-boots mainly because I thought that they looked ugly; I felt the same way about Uggs too, but once I realized how cozy they were I got over it (I just don’t wear them when I know I’m seeing my uncle).  On a whim, I was looking for shoes about a year and a half ago, and I came across a cute, cheap pair of rain-boots.  I decided to buy them and see what all the fuss was about.  The very next time it rained I wore them and was ecstatic; I could walk right through big puddles and my feet stayed perfectly dry.  I have loved them ever since.  There is only one problem though: rain-boots do not seem to like me.  That first pair lasted me about six months then they cracked straight down the back.  For my second pair of rain-boots, I decided to search the internet and find the one that stood out to me the most.  I ended up spending close to $100 on a brown pair from Michael Kors.  They were taller and heavier than my first pair, but I liked them just the same.  Those lasted about six months too: they cracked in the front at the toes.  For a few months I was discouraged, luckily those months were mostly lacking in the rain department.  I wasn’t sure if it was the way that I was walking in them or just rain-boots in general, although my bus friend has had the same pair for a few years and her’s have never broken on her.  As a last resort, I decided to by a pair of Hunters.  I had avoided these mainly because I’m not thrilled with how they look, but I found the “high gloss” ones a little more tolerable.  They are the most expensive rain-boots that I have bought to date and I wore them for the first time yesterday…let’s see how long these last me.  If they break in six months again I will be convinced that rain-boots hate me.

The second thing that drives me crazy about the rain is pants.  Think about it.  Depending on the material, when you get stuck outside in a shower, the pants may take a long time to dry and then they stick to your ankles.  It is almost as annoying as walking around with wet feet all day.  On rainy days, I don’t wear pants.  Either I wear a dress or a skirt, stockings or bare-legged…trust me, it makes a difference.  Sure, you feel the rain on your legs when you are outside walking around in it, but legs dry much faster than clothes and you will not be sorry. 

My last trick for rainy days is for my hair.  Last summer, which was particularly hot and humid, I found that going back to an old friend really works: a straightening iron.  I had stopped using my straightening iron for two reasons: one is that it damaged my hair (though I think the blow-dryer does more), the second is because it leaves my hair flat…but…flat versus frizzy.  I would take flat over frizzy any day.  Of course today, I did not get to use the iron before I left for work, so my hair is impossibly frizzy :(.

A little over a month ago, my friend Melissa told me about a type of yoga called anti-gravity.  What is it exactly pray tell?  I hadn’t a clue either and, instead of explaining it to me, Melissa told me to google it.  At first I was annoyed with the fact that she would not just explain it to me, but upon googling it, I realized why.  It’s not that it is difficult to explain: you just wouldn’t get the same effect as seeing a visual of it.  In one of my rare moments, I am providing a picture below (there are very few times when I have a picture accompany a post) :).

Anti-gravity yoga, also known as aerial yoga, does in fact take place in the air, on a hammock that hangs from the ceiling to be exact…or so they call it.  (I personally, feel like it is just a piece of fabric.)  Think of the circus.  Think the dancers that climb up long drapes of fabric that are attached to the ceiling and do tricks on them.  Have you got the picture?  While I have yet to take a class, I’m pretty sure that I won’t be doing anything as advanced as that on them…also, I am scared of heights, and although it doesn’t look like you are far up at all, the idea of hanging from the ceiling on a piece of fabric just doesn’t quite seem normal to me. 

I forget why we never ended up taking a class; it could have been because our schedules weren’t matching up, which is quite common with Melissa and I, but in any event, I have resigned myself to take the plunge and take a class (hopefully with Melissa).  The studio that we were going to go to, as it happens, is a lot closer to my place than I originally thought.  I have passed by it many a time and not even realized that it was there…or perhaps I was just not looking for a yoga studio at the time and it was washed away from my memory (there was a time in my life where I denounced ever practicing yoga again…the idea of practicing it is a very recent revelation).  Though the idea of hanging from the ceiling by fabric isn’t exactly appealing (I have never been one to want to bungee jump, although part of me does want to take a trapeze class…and yes, you can take those in New York; Carrie did it on SATC and there are a few places), the unappealingness kind of makes it appealing, if that makes sense.  The last time I can think of that I did anything remotely crazy was almost two years ago when I was vacationing at Lake Tahoe with my mother and sister, and we parasailed.  I was terrified to do it, but I knew that I would regret it if I didn’t, so I pushed myself.  I don’t feel the same fright with anti-gravity yoga, but I am a little apprehensive about it, and it is definitely not in my comfort zone; which means that I have to do it while I still can.  I feel like every once in a while you need to do something that is drastically different from what you would normally do; it’s how we stay alive, how we keep growing.  If we never challenged ourselves what would be the fun in life?

Aside from the hour or so of hanging in the air, anti-gravity yoga is supposed to be a good workout, and it helps your joints decompress, which is another plus.  Unless you are someone who frequents the chiropractor, that doesn’t happen a lot.  I have been to the chiropractor only a handful of times and am not a fan of the back cracking (specifically the neck cracking)…I felt like my neck was being broken off. 

Because of my fabulousness at planning schedules, I will sadly have to wait two more weeks until I defy gravity, but I feel that it will truly be worth it. 

Last weekend, I spent some time at my father’s place, as he was in the mood to play around with my computers and I do not have internet at my apartment on purpose, although I am starting to rethink it.  I had gone out the night before with my good friend Z, and I was exhausted but thankfully not hung-over at all.  I should not be seen when I’m hung-over, not only because I’m nauseous the whole day and have no patience for people (not that I tend to have patience anyway, though surprisingly, I am the most calming person in a stressful situation), but also because I just look awful: my skin has this pale-sickly complexion to it and my lips are a bright red.  The funny thing about my relationship with my father is that, whenever I am in the least possible social mood, that’s when he’s in the most and vice versa.  It’s actually kind of amusing.  Saturday, he was in the mood to hang out for hours and I…I just wanted my bed; I literally fought the whole day to keep my eyes open: no amounts of food or caffeine fixed my problem.  Ever have those days?  I’m generally tired because I’m a terrible sleeper, but there are just some days where I should be at home and in bed…or at least dozing on my couch.

My father left the room at one point, saying that he had something for me.  When he came back, he plopped a thick binder in front of me.  I looked at it, feeling as if I was supposed to know what it was, but I didn’t recognize it, so I opened it.  As it turns out, it was one of my old binders from high school, the contents of which helped me to deduce that it came from my junior year…mostly.  I decided to briefly go through it, page-by-page; there was some interesting stuff in it of which I will look at it more closely before deciding what to ultimately do with it.  The one thing that stood out to me the most though, was two “journal” entries that I had written in the midst of all the school pages: it was from my sophomore year.  I glanced up at my father, wondering if he had read it or not, but decided that I’d rather not ask him, seeing as how it was from so long ago that it really did not matter…then I poured over it.

Automatically, my mind drifted back to that time period in my life; I had to be about fifteen or sixteen when I wrote those two entries.  That wasn’t the easiest time in my life; in fact, it was probably the hardest.  Twelve years ago my life took a dramatic change.  I remember everything that happened then, but reading those two entries felt as if I were reading that of a stranger’s.  It’s weird; I remember the emotional pain that I was going through at that time, but at the same time I guess, maybe I don’t quite remember as vividly as I thought.  The girl in them was so distraught and intense, and so not the me that I know today, that I barely recognized her.  I’m not sure if that is a good thing or not…maybe it is a good thing.  Maybe that’s how you’re supposed to remember the past: feeling detached from it.

Those are the only two journal entries that I have from that far back because I had to turn them in (yes, that’s right).  Part of me is glad of this, but part of me wonders, if I did have them, would I still feel the same detachment that I felt by reading those two, or would the feelings and thoughts grow on me and engulf me once more?  I will never know the answer to that, and it’s probably for the best…although this experience has made me want to read as far back in my journals as possible (yes I still keep a journal) to see if I remember being in those situations.  It’s funny how the mind works sometimes…