My vendetta against umbrellas has been going on since I can remember. It’s quite simple: I don’t like umbrellas and they don’t like me.

They are the actual worst for four main reasons.

One: Dirt and Debris.

When you get out of the rain, your umbrella is super wet – so you don’t want to put it in your bag. But where to put it? You can’t put it on a desk, you’ll soak all of your precious papers – or worse, your laptop. So, you usually opt for the floor – which is fine – until you get up to leave and realize that your umbrella has made friends with all the lost hairs, fuzz, and other lovely sediments on the ground. It’s gross. Especially when you can’t tell if that little hair is from the guys’ head with the buzz cut in front of you, his eyebrow, or some other body part. Now you’re standing with a dirty umbrella in your hand about to enter a crowded stairwell. You have two options: A) be polite and carry the umbrella close to you, risking rubbing the sediments against yourself or B) “accidentally” rub and spin your umbrella against anyone passing by in hopes of cleansing your umbrella. Neither of these options are that great. No one likes to be a dick (except umbrellas).

Two: Danger.

As if taking umbrellas indoors wasn’t stressful enough, you have to deal with them outside as well. Carrying an umbrella is too much responsibility for a busy person like me when I have so many other things on my mind besides possibly poking someone’s eye out. On rainy days, I am always on the defense against incoming umbrellas, their pointy edges ready to slice open the artery of anyone who comes too close – I couldn’t possibly multitask by simultaneously trying not to draw blood with my own. I’ve been scratched by more umbrellas than I can count, and only half of those times were accidents.

Three: Dead Arm.

As if the umbrella handling wasn’t demanding enough, there is also the arm numbing. If you’re holding that thing for too long, your arm begins to tire, the blood rushes down and nestles into your elbow as your fingers cling on for dear life. You can only switch between hands for so long until you’re searching the crowds for an umbrella-less stranger to share with so your precious hands can catch a break.

Four: Resistance to Authority.

As if the loss of proper circulation wasn’t scary enough, umbrellas bring dreaded social havoc to the table as well. We’ve all been mortified by our parents, me by my dad with finger puppets while waiting for the bus, but now that we’re older – there’s a new tyrant in Humiliation Town. The Umbrella. On windy days, my umbrella will do its best impression of Linda Blair, twisting and jerking, sending me jolting across sidewalks in attempts to reel it in. Some days it refuses to behave and I look like an edgy Mary Poppins wanna-be with my umbrella inside out. Not even Julie Andrews herself could make that work.

In conclusion: If it rains at my funeral – tough it out.


Kat Stubing