But I took a beating all the same. The wind is at it again and I’m starting to get really annoyed. It doesn’t stop blowing. Ever. It whistles and howls like a train all hours of the day and night.
This morning I walked down to the riverfront, which is much closer than it used to be thanks to the recent flooding. In a massive, all out effort to limit the water damage, the city filled and piled many thousands of sandbags and they were surprisingly successful. But now that the water’s receding, sand is everywhere — sidewalks, parking lots, streets, the air. Everything is gritty with sand.
Suddenly, the wind picked up. And when I say picked up, I don’t mean breezy, I mean gale force. The dog and I were battered around, shoved from pillar to post, pushed hither and yon. We skipped along with the graceful, fluid gait of two drunks. In other words, we lurched. Sometimes violently. The river, itself, churned with white caps. My eyes literally popped at that spectacle. I mean, come on, white caps? On the Illinois River? The water is closer to a solid than a liquid. So the wind clearly meant business.
Then, out of nowhere and for no reason, I was sandblasted. Stabbed by billions of grains of sand traveling at the speed of sound. And I was wearing shorts, so it hurt. A lot. There I was, struggling mightily to stand my ground, while I endured a free full-body exfoliation. In a matter of seconds, layers of dead skin cells were blown right off my body. I’ve been peeled from head to toe and my shorts got a good stonewashing.
The dog and I, we don’t go for walks anymore. Nope. We go outside, sure, but instead of walking I fly her like a kite. She has her own tail, you know. I should start wearing ankle weights or fill my pockets with quarters. With my balance, I’m afraid this is an accident waiting to happen.
Then I tell myself to snap out of it, the weird weather anomalies are just a hoax.