It's raining buckets in New York this morning. Raining Katz and Schwartz, as Uncle Slappy would say. Usually this time of year a mighty Nor'easter settles over the city. It marks the end of summer, really, much more emphatically than Raymour and Flanagan's "Rake in the Savings Fall Sale."
The storm comes with gusty winds that knock the remaining leaves off the remaining trees. There's not a garbage pail in sight that's not festooned with a cheap broken inside-out umbrella. People are sealed against the wet like ebola health workers, except for the still clueless hipsters who persist denying the elements and haven't changed out of their flip-flops and shorts.
The rain will continue, the radars and the news-readers tell us, through tomorrow. Then the storm will head out to sea and wither like a deflated birthday balloon a week past the birthday.
I've had a Nor'easter settle over me, as well.
The strain and stress of freelancing has saddened me.
I need something less transient and more fulfilling.
But like we do in a storm, we bundle up.
We snap our top button even if it pinches the folds in our necks.
We lace up our boots.
And we weather it.
We'll weather this, too.