Of Silly Songs and Soaked Shoes

Wind and rain pulse on the window behind me. I like working to the sound of precipitation, so I try to be grateful for the music even though I’d rather be listening to it while “working” on oatmeal cookies.
The Hill has been undergoing The Transition lately. I may be the only one who has put that particular label on this time of year, but anyone who’s been around D.C. for more than a year will recognize The Transition once I describe it. It’s the transformation between the holidays and appropriations season. In both on and off-election years, there is a certain downtime that seems to characterize January (2007 being an exception on account of a zealous new majority – but even then, after the “6 for ‘06” were voted on, there was a great deal of people looking at each other with that “what do we do now?” look on their faces). Lots of offices get to wear jeans and other casual attire; in any event there aren’t a lot of suits on either men or women. Most of my suits were retired for most of last month, as were my higher heels. But now my calendar has been filled up with meetings, advocates and appropriations requests.
As an aside, I am still getting used to having someone else scheduling my days. Not like I have my own secretary, but when I consider the fact that someone else’s job is to help make my day run more smoothly by scheduling it for me, I feel old and of far more consequence than I really am.
So with these meetings comes the resurrection of the suits and heels, the barrage of white papers and binders to clutter up filing cabinets recently cleaned during downtime. More people saying more or less what they did last year, and the bottom line is: we want more money.
Of course you do.
But I don’t want to dwell on the inexorable self-centeredness of humanity. Last night’s election results are bad enough to keep me disgruntled today. I start listening to the rain again, and whether because I broke out the CD again recently or because the sound takes me back to a very happy time seven months ago, a mellow but cheerful melody floats through my head:

Scratch my back with a lightning bolt
Thunder rolls like a bass drum note
The sound of the weather is Heaven’s ragtime band…

A smile slowly creeps across my face as I stare at my computer screen, which frames a memo I’ve been working on for a week and am still not happy with. So I may still not have the PATRIOT Act figured out. Who cares. I’ll run away to Key West with my girls.

Barefoot children in the rain
Got no need to explain
We’d be swingin’ on a ball and chain
It’s always understood by those who play the game
Barefoot children in the rain…

As rain pounds the marble outside, I think of the uptight men and women – prissy staffers and lobbyists alike – who are probably fretting as they scurry between the buildings. Perhaps if you didn’t wear Prada shoes, adverse weather wouldn’t be such a disaster. I briefly contemplate what I would say if I were to see such people during the course of the day and consider how well the suggestion that they kick off their dress shoes and go barefoot in the rain would be taken. It would probably do their soul good. But even the word soul isn’t used very often around here.
So they’ll retreat into the cafeterias – how insufferable large groups make the cafeterias! – and try to dry off their Pradas, inside and out, not knowing how much happier they’d be – carefree and barefoot in the rain. There are too many childish grown-ups around here, and not enough grown-up children.