Tabatha Deans

I’M OFFICIALLY A DENVERITE
It’s official. I’m a Denverite. For the first time in more than a decade I have a new phone number—with a Denver area code. Initially I balked at losing my phone number, which was carefully chosen to spell 637-TABS, but after careful thought I decided it might be a good move for me. I suspect that more than a few of the queries/resumes I’ve sent have been disregarded because of the out of state phone number, so hopefully this official change will let everyone know I’m actually local. (I like to think the address on my resume would give them a clue, but, well, you know…)
Spring has sprung in my little city, and after several days of near 80-degree weather, I thought I was safe to ditch my winter coat and boots. I was wrong. I spent the day in the office collecting donations, with sunny weather and sporting a tank top. About an hour before I left the clouds started rolling in and a few drops of rain fell. No worries, I had a hooded sweatshirt and a rain jacket. (Although I never actually wear the hood, because it just looks dorky and I don’t know any middle-aged woman who can pull off wearing a hoodie with the hood up.)
Even as the rain fell and I locked up to leave, I was confident my commute would be a little wet but not that bad. I was wrong again. Two minutes into my walk to the bus stop, the heavens opened up and hail began to fall. Little balls at first, which stung a little when they hit my face, but not enough to prompt putting my hood up. Then the balls grew larger, nearly the size of the end of my pinkie. And they fell harder. I could feel welts begin to develop on my head from the impact as I stepped up my pace. Finally, with red splotches on my face from being pelted by ice balls, I relented and put up my hood, then cinched it down tight around my face. The noise was deafening as the ice balls pounded me, and I knew for certain I looked like a red-headed middle-aged hooligan, but I ran to the bus stop and took shelter under a tree.
True to Denver weather, the hail and rain stopped about ten minutes later, but not until I was thoroughly soaked. As the sun came out I could actually see the steam coming off my wet clothes as I waited for the number 27 bus. Not exactly the true meaning of “smokin’ hot,” but I’ll take it…

April 15, 2012 - Posted by Tabatha Stewart | Uncategorized