It's been raining all day. The day is a blurred haze. I've been out and about, running to my usual rash of meetings, hellos, inbox contacts (the weekend was bliss without any need of these). Now my umbrella is drying over the potplants and I am staring out the window, trying to will myself into a state of mind suitable for going to the gym.
In April, I paid $250 for a year's student membership to the uni gym. That's about the cheapest price you could pay for an all-included service, but of course, it's only cheap if you actually use it enough times. Which is part of the reason gym memberships are so pricey - they figure if your brain won't make you go, maybe your wallet guilt might.
Anyway, I'm not really blogging about exercise or any of its associated guilts. I'm blogging about the rain. Rain should be good for writing, if you think about it: the soft misty haze evokes dew-soaked excursions into nature, a loved one preferably by one's side; the clumsier thumping of raindrops pulls back memories of sitting inside primary school classrooms listening to stories. At the very least rain should keep us from going out so we have more time to spend with our professed love, the blank page.
But in really, rain has a kind of - pardon this - dampening effect on things. I watch the rain, remember its feel on my skin and go duuuuuh. I drift off into reveries imagining what I'll write on my blog without doing any of the other writing that's piling up in sullen snowdrifts behind me.
And no, I still didn't go to the gym.