The promises, I mean. Those pesky promises. The problem with assuring blog readers of future explanation comes with the actually-having-to-write-those-explanations bit. But we forge ahead:
Not driving in a car adventures: Indiana is stormy in the summer. Apparently.
Driving to a ballet rehearsal in Carmel, we were forced to seek shelter as a sudden storm blew in–one moment, the rain; the next, the upended rain barrel of God. Gravity twisted in more than three directions. Visibility was so bad it was hard to discern whether that gap in road was actually a side street into which we could turn.
We took shelter outside a synagogue. The windshield fogged up, and I had to call my dad to look up the number of the ballet studio so I could warn them of my probable tardiness.
So the rain passed and the windshield finally unfogged and after the ballet rehearsal, we tracked down a Japanese restaurant called Sakura which had been recommended to me by the Italian lady on my plane ride a few days previous. Spider rolls = good. Eating a bunch of wasabi plain = tears.
This weather thing that I’ve discovered is normal for a Midwest summer. Yes? I’m not liking it so much. Now, wearing clothes and not absolutely melting in the outside air is lovely, especially after two decades of humid, oppressive Richmond summers. The brisk air as I eat my morning toast in the University Terrace courtyard? Divine.
The tornado sirens and the lightening and the calls warning us to seek shelter late in the night? Not so much a fan.
We are fortunate enough to be living in a basement apartment, so we did not have to go anywhere to seek shelter, except perhaps away from the larger windows in the living room. Nevertheless, I still harbored images of the car directly outside the window by my bed being slammed into the building and crushing me into something out of Flatland.
Despite the reassurances of my Midwestern roommate–who has actually survived a tornado–I might have hidden in an alcove in the living room until the lightning slowed.