Last night was like a scene from an artsy, Academy Award-winning film.
The rain started falling in sheets. It was about 11 p.m., about the time when a 20something with a full-time job decides to either go to sleep or to do something slightly mischievous.
My friend Kyle was over watching Baby Mama with me. My roommate Janna came home. The rain was pouring. We each had one glass of white wine. The rain was still pouring.
“We should go play in it,” Janna suggested.
That was all it took. We were all out the door in a matter of seconds, spinning, getting soaked, splashing in puddles, acting like we were 5 years old. Kyle and I raced each other down my street, he ate the honey out of a giant honeysuckle plant, and Janna cussed him out because she thought the plant was poisonous and he would die of honeysuckle poisoning. What a terrible way to die.
We felt so alive. We lay on my driveway and let the raindrops pound down on our faces and form droplets on our nostrils and eyelashes. The neighbors probably thought we were on drugs. But we didn’t care. The world was quiet, surreal and peaceful for 15 minutes last night. And we were kids again.