Rain

I recall, in my childhood, having been very taken with rainy summer days. I loved dancing uninhibited in the yard, having only the trees and elderly neighbors as witnesses to my performance. I loved the feel of the wet drops on my skin, and loved even more the rumble of thunder in the distance and the tinge of electricity in the air that made the wet hairs on my arms tingle with anticipation of the coming storm. I recall nights spent cuddled up in sleeping bags in the basement, waiting out tornado watches and storm warnings, and wondering with each crack of lightening and every roll of thunder if my house would stand up to the violent weather.

That was then.

Now, I find myself bracing the winds and rain in flimsy heels which are demanded by my employer. I tiptoe around puddles that I once would have stomped merrily through, just to feel the joy of creating mayhem. Now I grimace if a drop hits my skirt, and squirm to feel the rainwater oozing through my shoes. I have accumulated six umbrellas from the sudden showers that creep out of unsuspecting summer skies. I hate them all. I want nothing more than to crawl under the covers and wrap myself in a cocoon of warmth and dryness until the end of August, when I'm told monsoon season will end.

I imagine somehow that the weather would be bearable in a more idyllic setting. Were I in the country, perhaps the fog wrapped around the hills would feel more romantic. As it is, the fog curls itself around the grey concrete buildings and settles on the surrounding mountains like a suffocating grey plastic bag being slowly lowered over your head. There is no beauty that I can find in the dreary city showers, the rain pouring out of the sky in uneven tones, drizzling one moment, then dropping buckets of water in the next.

Even on sunny days, the humidity clings to your skin in a manner not unlike the unwanted slobber of an overzealous mutt. It soaks through your clothes, and here, where baring your shoulders is reserved for beaches, saunas and brothels, there is the sense that all around you people are hiding their deep discomfort and wishing to rip off their layers but are too dignified to give in to the logical temptation. I want to shout in subways and on buses, where I remain surrounded by women dressed head to toe in long black leggings and long-sleeved shirts: "What is wrong with you?? Why do you make yourself suffer through this ungodly heat and wetness? Why do you look at my bare arms and calves as though I am the crazy one?" But instead I sit, feeling the added discomfort of being cloaked in the shame of being too white and too uncovered in a t-shirt and skirt, while young Korean women my age aren't given a second glance for wearing short shorts that often provided neighbors with unwanted images of their underwear, or worse.

It is enough to make me want to stay at home aside from the hours at work. In class the air conditioning cools the children in one row while never quite reaching the rest of the room, making for daily discussions over temperature, and at least I can be reassured that they will be capable of small talk in any English speaking country. At home I attempt to open my windows at night for a breeze, only to let in the muggy smog that hangs about my window, joined with the lovely exhaust fumes from the motorcycle shop below. Walking one minute to work, I am confronted with the feeling of having gas poured into my lungs from the passing motorcyclists and the city buses lingering at the bus stop or waiting for the light to change. My asthma has never been this bad, and I am too stubborn to admit it, so end up wheezing up the stairs to my muggy classroom, where I always take a moment to simply plop down in my chair in a state of resignation before turning on the air con and logging in to work.

In the coming weeks I have only to look forward to extra classes four days a week, when I get to pretend that learning English is a fun way for my students to spend their much-needed vacation from school. I honestly believe that these children need fresh air and playtime much more than they need to learn to read for a test or understand conversations in a foreign language, but my opinion is of no consequence. I hope to make the extra hours as painless as possible for the students whose parents insist on them losing their free-time in order to sit through hours of English education.

Many of my close friends will be leaving in the coming month, a fact which is slowly and painfully sinking in. I will be moving to a less depressing apartment at the end of August, which I'm hoping will make the transition easier. At least I'll have a better view from the 12th floor, less traffic noise to contend with, and walls which are less abrasive on the eyes. Still, the six months I've added to my contract will certainly be different from the first twelve, and a part of me is dreading that time, when I will need to save most of my paycheck for grad school tuition, while trying to make new friends since so many will have left.

On the positive side, I know that September weather will be an improvement over this grey monotony. I anticipate days on the beach and sunshine brightening the city streets, and when the sun does resume it's rightful place in the sky, I know my mood will brighten with it.