Half of my childhood was spent on camping trips, and of these sacred family excursions, my favorites were always the ones where it rained. The stormier the nighttime weather, the happier I was, bundled in four layers of jumpers and blankets, tucked in my sleeping bag, smiling uncontrollably at the sound of raindrops on a tent roof.
I am still overwhelmingly partial to the rain, quickly and passionately coming to its defence whenever a classmate complains about the weather. Although my frequent assertions that “I love the rain” aren’t typically met with tremendous agreement, I stand by them, reminding people what a wonder it truly is. I actively avoid walking my dog unless it’s raining outside. I crack open my windows during windy late-night showers. The only time I relish five-hour college-visit car rides is when I get to stare angstily out the window as it’s pummeled by what borders on a hurricane. I wish it rained more often.