Pounding, lashing thunderstorms all morning long.
I took my youngest child to school.
When I returned home, though - drenched to the bone and spitting nickels from the traffic - I stripped off my wet things, slipped into a laundry-crisp cotton nightie, and crawled back in the bed with the Mister.
It was heavenly. All the windows in our second-storey bedroom open to the sounds of the storm, ceiling fan whirring lazily above our heads, J and I stole a delicious few hours of uninterrupted slumber, stretched out flat and hand-in-hand on the king size, I recently outfitted with luxury high thread-count linens.
God, it was grand, and all the more delightful because we felt like we were getting away with something, playing hooky, even though neither of us really had anywhere to be. Stress and tension leaked from my body, I tell you.
If you have not curled up with someone you trust lately, and slept a deep sleep in a thunderstorm, I highly recommend it. I promise you, it does a world of good for the spirits. Worth its weight in Prozac.
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