My Umbrella, Myself

In my car, there's always an umbrella. The matter of where remains challenging. Sometimes it's under the driver's seat. Sometimes it's under the passenger's seat. Or maybe it's in my trunk. Or hiding under the mat. Or lounging in the back seat. The point is, when I need that free-floating umbrella, a fleeting need, a SoCal rarity, I can't find it, not at first. And then, when at last I do find it, in some hard to reach automotive vicinity, after I've stretched weirdly and strained my neck and mangled my funny bone and the majority of my aging anatomy, I grab it and perform the awkward open-umbrella/half-way-in-half-way-out-the-door maneuver, and inevitably, 99 percent of the time, the coveted bumbershoot refuses to open, or only half-opens, or opens but then won't close once I reach my exciting destination. So there's that. What with the occasional rains of the past two weeks, I've now busted two umbrellas.

One umbrella, I really loved. It lasted longer than any umbrella. I had it for many years. It was pretty and floral and portable. I got it at Brighton in the mall as a bonus for spending over $100. It went everywhere with me. Sherman Oaks. West L.A. New York City. You could say it was a Broadway Brollie, not to mention, an art lover, to boot. Until...  during a light drizzle, as I was walking Sir Blakey, it failed me. I'm still not over it. But out of necessity, I had to move on, as one does after a loss. I found an ugly, ka-ka portable in the back of the closet and threw it in the car. Yesterday, it wouldn't open, no matter how much I swore at it.

So, onward to the next umbrella, the pricier London Fog. Wish me luck. I'm going to need it.