It was raining when I went out for my run tonight, but it was just little dibbly dabbles. I stood on my stoop for a couple seconds, considering abandoning the run, but then remembered I lived in Vancouver for four years, and became afraid of permanently negating that whole period of my life by being intimidated by dibbly dabbles. People would see me retreat into my house and say, "She must never have lived in Vancouver," and I just couldn't take that chance.
Anyway, at a certain point, it was no longer dibbly dabbles, and the lightning that was off in the distance at the start had gotten all up in my face. It looked like it was going to get torrential on me, and I realized I hadn't brought my iPod cover. Suddenly, this became about more than just my comfort; Little Mac's life was also at stake (or so my endorphin-addled brain believed). So I decided to sprint back to my house, to "race the storm" which I put in quotation marks because it sounds...fratty. I don't want you to believe I said it genuinely, though I do believe that I just raced the storm. There. I'm owning it.
And I am elated now, because there's no way around the fact that I won. I can't tell at what point in my sprint down Willoughby Avenue I realized that I was outrunning the storm, but I had that realization, and it may as well have come in the form of rockets popping out of my back and Swift-Wind-style wings growing on my feet. If any part of that storm was reaching me, it was only the back of my heels.
I didn't know that this was a thing I was supposed to do before I die, but wow, there is not much that is quite as satisfying as deciding it's you against a non-sentient force of nature, and then hands-down no-two-ways-about-it flat-out winning the challenge. As soon as I got in my door, I heard that bitch let out a thunderclap and the next second, unleash a heavy, heavy downpour. But it was just too late.
Thunderstorm, tonight, I really kicked your cumulonimb-ASS.