As a kid, I always felt like James Bond when I’d open an automatic umbrella that first time; then of course by the third open-close in a minute it’d surely break, dramatically so, and I’d feel much less like a spy and more like myself again, but, you know, in more pain — either from a gouged eye, a nearly amputated hand or whatever other injury I had inflicted upon myself or others in that short span of time.
Today, whenever I see an automatic umbrella opening itself in public I go into a mini panic attack. Everything slows down and fades to grayscale color schemes. As far as I’m concerned, wherever there’s an umbrella there’s probably going to be some pain soon, especially on this campus.
Otterbein enrolls about 3,000 students annually — which I still find surprisingly high since rarely do you see more than a couple hundred in one place at one time — and that’s a lot of umbrellas. What’s more surprising is that not one of them knows how to handle a damn umbrella to save his or her life (or mine for that matter).
After four years of learning the hard way, before leaving the house on cloudy mornings in greater Columbus, I just do the math in my head. “OK, there’s an 80 percent chance of rain, which leaves a 79 percent chance of getting poked in the eye today.” At least this way I’m ready for it.
But isn’t it funny how something we spend so much time trying not to break or misplace in our cars can carry such phenomenal potential for pain? (Check under the passenger’s seat. That’s usually where mine turns up.)
It’s a constant give and take figuring out who’s in real danger with all the umbrella handling: It’s as much the umbrella as the guy who’s trying to open it, not to mention whoever happens to be around the doomed fool when it does, finally, unfasten like a dilapidated Transformer.
But if you’re going to take an umbrella with you when you go out on the town, at least try to use some proper etiquette.
You know those mats they have at entrance ways in public buildings? Like the ones in Roush and pretty much everywhere else in the world that has a roof? That’s where you’re supposed to shake off that umbrella, not when you’re sandwiched between 30 undergrads waiting in line for that Otter Bean mocha.
If you are fortunate enough to remember to grab an umbrella on a rainy day, you overachiever you, please, just keep it to yourself. Sharing an umbrella, especially with a stranger, can be risky business and really only works when you give up the umbrella completely, which no one really wants to do unless he or she is flirting or Gene Kelly.
Unless you’re carrying around an obnoxiously large umbrella, in which case I hope you get struck by lightning, two people under one umbrella get wet.
And one more thing: Think of the umbrella as an extension of your body — spatially, I mean. You should be as dimensionally aware of your umbrella as you are of your legs and arms.
And don’t turn around, ever.
As dangerous as they are breakable, we certainly go through a lot of trouble to stay dry on rainy days. Personally, I’d rather just stay home.
We need more productive political discussions
