I’ve never really wanted to own an umbrella, and yet I’ve spent a bundle on them. Never all at once: Since I moved to New York in 2007 I’ve come out of the subway several times a year and seen the kind of rain that makes you say, “I’m not moving another goddam foot in this weather!” and then shelled out $5 or $10 at a corner store on a piece of garbage that explodes into a tangle of shrapnel and nylon when the wind picks up.
So now I’ve got a Davek Solo — a $100 umbrella, man. It fits in any bag I own (briefcase, mini backpack, luggage), it’s got the one-button open and close function, it’s indestructible in the wind and it has a lifetime guarantee. I freaked out a little when I woke up one morning after a late night and thought I lost it, only to find that I’d tucked it safely into a drawer like a proper adult. Rain protection, I’m finding, is a not-so-subtle metaphor for being responsible in life after age 30.