It's been wet the last few days, and fall-like, and sad. Or maybe that's just my usual autumn moodiness settling in for a little visit: it's hard sometimes to be sure of these things, or to read the differences between them.
Yesterday it was pouring when I left work at five but for some reason I decided to walk up to 125th Street to catch the train anyway, and of course got drenched. My slightly embarrassing Columbia umbrella (because who really wants to advertise where one works, but still, it was free -- a practical thank you for ten years of service to balance out the inanity of a crown-shaped lapel pin) is coming unmoored from its wires and was no match for the wind and rain. I had been so pleased in the morning that the air was cool enough for my new corduroy pants (soft and black and already comfortable despite not yet being broken in), and that I finally matched the season, but there's nothing nice about walking around in soaked cords. When I got home I had to peel them off and dry myself and curl up with a cup of tea before I could do anything else.
Eventually I made some dinner and pulled out one of my knitting projects and watched Let Me In, and then dreamt all night about frozen branches and glass cracking and eyes.
This morning it's still raining but a different kind of rain. The kind of misting rain that seems almost to not be there, at least as long as you are perfectly still. The kind that collects on the surfaces of things -- clothes, hair, eyebrows, skin -- and takes so long to sink in that you don't quite realize how cold and damp and miserable you are until much later.