Today was one of those yellow days.
Anyone that lives in the Middle East knows exactly what I’m talking about. I’d expect that those of you who don’t, have absolutely no idea. The best I can do is describe precisely what a yellow day is like: It starts when you look out the window and realize that that perfect cornflower blue sky, the one you’re used to, the one that makes the tourists exclaim with delight, the one that signifies that we actually live on the Mediterranean Sea, is gone. Abracadabra–poor–gone. In its place, is one the color of an egg yolk that’s been over-whipped; a kind of bland, pale, ugly yellow that you’d never want to wear, to drive in, to entertain on, or really, to have anything to do with whatsoever. Yes, the sky is the color of disappointment, banality, boredom and dearth.
And best of all, once you’ve spotted that sky, you have the lovely experience of knowing exactly what awaits you the minute you step out of the house and into the driveway. Stage two of a yellow day is about your car, the absolute epitome of disgusting. Now, I’m not a car person. I don’t keep mine shiny and clean. I don’t really care if it’s the best looking drive around. But when it comes to a yellow day, I want nothing more than a lean, mean, driving machine. And instead, what I have is a vehicle covered with a brown sludge that defies cleaning. Any attempt to use the wipers makes everything worse, smearing the droplets of dried, sandy, yellow rain from one side of the glass to the other. And no matter how you try to move that sludge, to clear some kind of small opening so that you can actually get a view of the road, you’re still left with a yellow world–this time framed by columns of brown instead of the window you gazed out of earlier that day.
There’s no escape! I know I’m supposed to love the fact that I live near the beach, rejoice in the proximity to the sand and the sea, but on days like today–a yellow day–I want nothing more that to return to the clarity of bricks, concrete and tarmac. I want the kind of rain that makes everything seem shiny and new, freshly washed and glistening; the kind of rain that speaks of renewal instead of lethargy.
It’s a cardinal sin to complain about rain in this country, and far be it from me to risk offending those on high, but if the next few days hold more of the same, I may be forced to pop some kind of psychedelic substance that will help color my world a less depressing palette.
