I knew it was raining, this morning before I opened my eyes. Even without hearing the raindrops hitting the bedroom window, I could tell from the stiffness of my newly-obstreperous knee.
But I had to get dressed and get downstairs in time for a friend to come over. She wanted to “help” me declutter my hall closet.
Note to the wise: it is seldom truly helpful! Because the people who offer to “help” usually mean “Let me haul all that crap to the curb for you, it’s clearly worthless,” and if you really felt that way, you’d have already tossed it all, so let’s just skip that discussion and remain friends instead!
But she is a very good friend, whom I haven’t seen in 6 months, so I let her in. She got right to work, pulling one thing after another out of the closet.
“What does anyone need five raincoats for, anyway?” she asked me.
It’s six, really, but I let that go. “I hate rain,” is all I said.
“For example, why this one?”
“Ah. I bought that for my first job interview after college, when I needed to wear a suit, but it rains all the time in Manhattan — have you noticed? It was my first official trench-coat, like correspondents wore, with all the loops and buttons — it made me feel so grown-up!”
“Then why this identical one, but in black?”
“Well, after a few years of riding the subways, and carrying newspapers, the beige one got irretrievably dingy. Besides, everyone in New York City wears black — it’s supposed to be slimming, and even if it isn’t, it means you’re serious.”
“And what’s the story with this, um, atrocity?”
She was holding up a hanger with a completely plastic maroon-colored hooded raincoat with snaps down the front instead of buttons, and a tear on the side that had been repaired with gaffer tape.
“Ah! The truly waterproof one, you mean? Yes, well, that’s from the day I was assigned to the cameraman doing a photoshoot of the windows at Barney’s. It was absolutely pouring, and I got soaked right through my trenchcoat — they’re only water-resistant you know— while holding an umbrella over the camera. So we took a quick break and I ran inside the store and bought the first truly waterproof thing I saw.”
“Did they reimburse you?”
“What, for a raincoat from Barneys? What do you think?”
“I thought not. It’s just as well you left show business! But now that you’ve told me the story, can you at least let this one go?”
“Heck no! It’s the one I still use, to this day, to duck out in rainstorms and make sure that my gutters are working. I feel so safe from everything when I’m wearing it.”
My friend and I eyed the stack of raingear, piled up on a living room chair. “It’s quite a collection,” she said. “Let’s take a break.”
She makes excellent tea, so we sat and sipped quietly until I felt able to talk.
“The collection actually began during my freshman year at college,” I confessed. “You see, I loved being at Yale, but I hated rain, and it seemed to rain in New Haven just about every day. How was I going to reconcile both of those things?”
“How did you?”
“I decided I would just have to find things to like about rain — such as how it washes pollen and dust right out of the air.”
“There’s also the smell of freshly rained-on earth, in spring.”
“I do like that. Plus I finally figured out that it wasn’t rain I hated, so much as feeling cold and wet. So I bought every raincoat and a pair of boots I came across.”
“Retail therapy!” said my friend, as we clinked teacups.
“And I concentrated on other things,” I continued, “like how nice and cozy it feels, on a rainy day, to be safe and dry.”
“Making soup,” said my friend.
“Or tea!” I smiled at her.
We both got up. All that talk about feeling warm and dry reminded me that not everyone has that luxury, on rainy days. I saved one trenchcoat, in case I ever have another job interview, and the maroon “atrocity,” and we bundled up the rest for charity.
“You see? We really did manage to declutter — at least somewhat,” said my friend.
All it took was her being an amazing listener. And pouring a great cup of tea.
