A Case for the Umbrella
When Hurricane Ida made its landfall in New York Wednesday night, it appeared as though a mild to mid-level tsunami had swept through every crevice of the city, giving the streets and subways the most intense power washing that the concrete and tiles had likely ever experienced in the last few decades. Videos posted to the internet the next morning possessed some kind of CGI effect, the images so outrageously aggressive and terrifying that I felt myself waiting for someone to yell “And SCENE!” off-camera. I was convinced that the water’s source must have come from some man-made pump in the control of young studio assistants and the pedestrians were simply extras waiting for their free dinner after a twelve-hour workday.
Thursday morning I stomped my way alla fugue-state from Tribecca up to the Upper East Side. New York City never fails to amaze me with how swiftly it breaks your heart just to come crawling back into bed and beseech you for forgiveness. The city offered up a breezy, gloriously sunny, mid-70s day as a peace offering. And we forgave it.
Remnants of our fight, however, littered the streets. Carcasses of umbrellas abandoned by their owners were strewn about Soho’s cobblestones, thrust inside out by the wind, wires protruding in every direction like a dystopian cactus. I always feel a pang of sadness when I see umbrellas that have not been disposed of properly. The least we could do is toss them into the nearest trash can.
I brought up our new umbrella population to my good friend, Gabby, while we walked downtown together on Friday morning.
“It’s so funny,” I said, “how long umbrellas have existed and how little they’ve evolved over the years.”
This was followed by a brief discussion of why we both hate using umbrellas (Gabby prefers a poncho). They can be finicky, break easily, are annoying to carry, and never really keep you completely dry. Their impracticality is innate regardless of their size. The larger you go, the more bothersome to store and tiresome to hold up. The more compact umbrella, on the other hand, offers limited protection and trickles rain off the backend onto your backpack.
“Despite all of its shortcomings,” I began to say, “There really isn’t any other design that could do a better job,” Gabby said, completing my exact thought.
I couldn’t agree more. The umbrella just makes sense. It’s a true example of “if it ain’t broke don’t fix it.” There’s a reason why it has yet to be replaced by a more popular, modern tool. Sure, we made them foldable at some point and installed a button in some versions to deploy it with ease, but its basis has pretty much stayed the same for hundreds of years. It’s tried and true. Old faithful. Everyone usually has at least one laying around and we’re always going to need one at some point.
I kept thinking about umbrellas after I dropped Gabby off at her lunch. I thought about how specific tools exist solely for a single purpose and how human beings invent objects to serve them then toss them aside like they’re nothing. Have we no loyalty to the things that have done nothing but attempt to keep us dry over the centuries?
We do the same thing with clothing. We buy one dress for prom, a relatively significant event, then stuff it into the back of our closet where it sits for years, never to be worn again. We buy bridesmaid dresses for weddings where we dance and cry and watch our friends grow up, only to wear them once.
We put furniture that we’ve been sitting on for years on the side of the street when we decide to move apartments. Mattresses we fell in love on, couches friends slept on, kitchen tables that were the basis of reunions, meetings, and family meals. Maybe I’m a closeted romantic, but inanimate objects never judge us. They exist because we created them. Their functionality was fastened by our own hands. We brought them into our world and we remove them just the same.
We’re always going to need umbrellas. I just sometimes wish they were built a little better. I’m secretly hoping someone will tackle the design and render it indestructible. We’re responsible for them; they wouldn’t be in our universe if we hadn’t forced them in. They’ve never really done anything wrong. They don’t randomly catch on fire like toasters. They don’t cause gas leaks. They don’t electrocute us. They do their jobs as well as we have allowed them, and we thank them by leaving them broken in the streets.