The Day Mother Nature Asked "Howdya Like Them Apples?"

The other night I stepped outside for what has become a pretty typical evening jog. Since usually I have already put in an hour so at the gym before hand, these runs can span anywhere from just 2 miles to nearly 6 or so, if I’m feeling extra spunky and time permits. When I left the house the sun was shining and there was nary an ominous cloud in the sky; it was a touch humid, but really, when it is not? So off I went, running along merrily, lost somewhere in the methodical, pulsing choruses of Interpol, nearly three miles down the road before I even knew it.

It was then, when I was the furthest away from home I could possibly be, that things began to take a turn for the worse. It started with just a bit of light sprinkling. The sun was still out, there were patches of blue sky, no harm, no foul. This is nothing, I thought, a nice cool down even. Apparently taking my levity as some sort of perverse challenge, Mother Nature, ever an uppity biotch, fired back at me Oh really, fool? I’ll give you a nice cool down, hmmph!

Then suddenly and yet magically on cue, the sky darkened, the wind raged, thunder bellowed and rain in quarter-sized droplets began to pound the pavement with unrelenting force. Within minutes, the gutters were overflowing, wind-shield wipers were on at maximum speed and I went from being a little sprinkled on to completely soaked through to the bone. This is what meteorologists are referring to with the term “flash flood”.

Now is perhaps when I should maybe mention my attire at the time, or rather my lack thereof. It’s not exactly my style to go bouncing around outdoors in a state of brazen undress, but being just barely fit and tan enough these days to get away with it, I’ve taken to jogging shirtless when the humidity makes its the only palatable option ... so there I was out on the street, like a bedraggled wet poodle, in nothing but a sports bra and running shorts. Although the black sports bra saved me from an embarrassing exhibition of nippleage, my white shorts did nothing to prevent a similarly mortifying butt-cheek display, in what was nothing short of a full-on wet t-shirt ass pageant for all of West Knoxville.

So much water was streaming down my face and into my eyes that I could barely see, all I could do was turn around and head slowly for home. As I pathetically ambled back towards shelter, with the booming thunder and lightning striking all around, I just laughed at myself and the whole absurd scenario.

And, of course, thirty minutes later and half a mile before reaching the house, it all blew over as quickly as it descended. For the final steps homeward, I could not have looked more ridiculous walking through my uncle's neighborhood of country club mansions in the sunshine, barely clothed and sopping wet. Without glancing outdoors at all during the previous hour the storm could have been completely missed, and then to look at me it would have appeared as though I’d taken a trip through the wardrobe into Narnia during monsoon season and been spit right back out.

The moral of this story: always check your local weather forecast for chances of rain and partial nudity, in which case may I suggest that you opt to stay indoors.