Dolly

It doesn't seem like a proper name for a whirling cyclone of destruction. Hurricanes don't let you braid their hair, they aren't cute, and they don't fraternize with toddlers.

OK, so Hurricane Dolly (currently rated as a category 2) made landfall well south of here, but when I woke up this morning with the deluded thought of running it was like God was whipping the world with egg-beaters. The door to our modest bungalow flew round on its hinges to reveal driving rain, flashes of lightning, and palm trees doing that spastic dance that I've only ever seen before on news reports.

Hurricane. Let us all take a moment to appreciate how wonderful this word is.

A joker-esque side of my psyche is so excited by the chaos that I can't even articulate, because heaven knows that Port Aransas could use some dynamite. Currently I'm sitting in my little office watching the drama unfold outside my window as I "work" on a presentation I have to give this Friday, but I long to run outside and dance behind all the weathermen that are surely out on the beach yelling into cameras. I want to stand at the tip of the jetty and raise my arms up as if I myself have conjured the tempest.

Don't worry parents and others who might be concerned--I do possess at least a shred of common sense. It's just... there's something about the elemental roar of this storm that calls me at once to feel like nothing but an insignificant blip in eternity and immortal and powerful beyond all reason.

Indeed. There's no conclusion. Bring on the storm.