Every year since 2001, it has rained on my birthday. I have been rained on in Oregon (duh), Spain, Arizona, Chile, Hawaii, Australia, New York, and Cambodia.
But it didn’t rain this year. It was 70 and sunny in LA and I barely knew what to do with myself. I kept looking up at the sky, wondering when I was going to get poured on, and it just didn’t happen.
I get pretty sentimental about little things and traditions. The rain has felt like something to depend on, even if it made logistics a little more difficult, I liked the notion that the rain was washing away the past year, and that I get to start fresh.
Here is my theory:
I have “started fresh” so many goddamn times already in the past year that there is nothing left to wash away. I have moved countries, started a new job, relationships have changed, and I am starting to get a tan for the first time in years. It’s been an almost-constant flow of change, renewal, and work on my brain and body. So honestly, even if the rain showed up, there wouldn’t be shit to do.
So instead of rain, I had brunch, I talked to people I love, I got a PIE delivery, and I had dinner at one of my favorite places in the city with one of my best friends, Lila.
Thanks for the love last week, you guys are the coolest, especially you, Tiff. I saw that post, and you made me cry in my coffee.