I RECENTLY bought a new umbrella, after deliberating for several months whether to buy one or not.
After getting drenched several times during heavy downpour while doing field work, I finally decided to buy a new umbrella.
I don’t normally buy umbrellas because of the horrible timing of my previous purchases. In the past, I bought umbrellas when the rainy season was over.
Over the years, I’ve managed to collect and lose countless umbrellas.
Some were plaid, others had horrendous floral prints (I’ve had tons of ugly floral printed umbrellas) and others had strange cartoon characters on them. Others were either plain black or dark blue.
I don’t usually use umbrellas because I like walking in the rain. But since I cannot walk in the rain everyday, I realized that I seriously need an umbrella.
So I bought one. A nice green one.
Though green is not my favorite color, my umbrella’s particular shade of green reminds me of green apples. And I like green apples.
So one morning, my spiffy new umbrella and I hit the streets with hopes of meeting up with a news source.
Since the sun’s glare was unbearable (and to quote a good friend: “Ugh, it was so init ba!”, insert a disgruntled expression and feeble attempts of fanning your face with hands), I decided to use my wonderfully green, brand new umbrella to spare me from the UV rays.
For a second, the famed “Umbrella” song came to mind and briefly, I hoped that it would rain. It would be just wonderful to get caught under the rain with my new umbrella in hand. It would make a very good “I’m singing in the rain” moment, too.
However, back to reality and the very hot weather I was caught under. I didn’t even get five minutes of enjoyment with what little protection my umbrella gave me from the heat when, out of nowhere, somebody whacks it from behind.
And by whacking it, my wonderfully new umbrella’s rod hit me on the side of my face.
Oh, joy.
As I whirled around, I screamed and stumbled backwards when I came face to face with an old man trying to once again slap my umbrella out of my hands.
“What the *bleep* is wrong with you?! Using an umbrella when it’s not raining! (Insert loads of expletives),” he screamed, waving his arms around.
Normally, I’d fight back and scream bloody murder for scaring me half to death. But all I ever managed was a feeble “sorry” and I quickly stumbled away from him.
He stalked off, muttering to himself a string of cuss words.
I followed him down the street minutes later, hoping not to cross his path again. Only to see him slap an umbrella out of some middle-aged woman’s hands.
Ah, our poor umbrella-ella-ella-eh-eh-eh.
