Why Do Umbrellas Hate Me?

The umbrella, existing for nearly 4,000 years, hates me.

Every umbrella I’ve ever employed has failed me. The defiance has come in various ways, the most frequent being turning upside-down in my hand while I am scrambling through a torrential downpour.

The more expensive the umbrella, the more flabbergasted I become when the upside-downness commences.  The only thing I can do is hold my head proudly as if I had every intention of walking around with a broken, spindly, soggy, lightning-beckoning wreck on a stick.

In a world where cars have the capacity to warn drivers when they’re about to reverse into an object, where vending machines can crank out your choice of milkshakes and pizza, where human ears can be grown upon the backs of lab mice, you’d think a more durable parasol could be designed.


Perhaps most infuriating is that I seem to be the only person with this particular problem. The umbrellas of everyone else are reliable, stoic, perfectly intact.

Why me?  Why does the umbrella have a lifelong personal vendetta against me?


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