Houston is not exactly Seattle, but it is one rainy-ass place. Recently we’ve had a couple of weeks that were more wet than dry. These conditions have caused a few of my pluviophilic friends to revel in the incessant rainfall.
I do not share their affection for rain. In fact, I consider rain an inconvenience at best and, if you have to get on a Houston freeway, a deadly menace at worst. My most common use of the weather forecast is to plan my errands and appointments so as to avoid going out in the rain altogether, if possible.
I do have a strange trait, though, that is sometimes brought out by rainy days. There’s probably a word for this state, too, but I don’t know what it is. I experience a deep-seated comfort and satisfaction during any sort of inclement weather as long as I can remain safely indoors, warm and dry. It’s not the weather itself that produces this Zen state in me, it’s an animal-level appreciation of the basic comfort of shelter. It is the warm electric light juxtaposed against the dark and stormy sky outside the window. It’s the snugness of a good roof in a downpour. It’s a warm oven and a cup of cocoa during an ice storm, or a simmering pot of homemade soup on a raw, windy day.
Whenever a spell of bad weather is forecast, I do my best to be prepared for some quality indoor time. I pick up a few groceries for some comfort cooking. I make sure I have some movies on hand and a new book to explore. I prepare for nesting. The rougher the weather, the sweeter the shelter.
There ought to be a word for that, but I can’t find it.