Odd, the focus on fair weather friends, when foul ones seem far greater in abundance. You know the sort—omnipresent in your struggle against inclement conditions, hand from high ground always slightly out of reach; and altogether evaporated as blustery winds calm, and storm eases to sparse drizzle. And if you should ever have the misfortune of meeting again in your better days, spend the entire encounter attempting to resurrect that drenched, downtrodden, long deceased version of you. Don’t they get it? That ship has sunk. Float on, or sink with.

I am calling neither for clear skies unceasing, nor rain relenting. All I ask is when the deluge begins, and downpour’s clichés commence, that an umbrella be in reach, just flexible enough that I may flip it back over when wind invariably gusts it inside out. Which is to admit that I want easy, but never to the extent of unfair advantage. Only the playing field made less treacherous; marginally more tractable.