Solidarity, baby.

You arrive at the front door soaking wet, I arrive soaking wet. You arrive cold, I arrive cold, fingertips red and burning.

Granted, I am only wet and cold from biking to work and not from sleeping outside, but that's solidarity for you.

At least that's what I told myself when I arrived to work sopping wet. It poured this morning as I was biking to work. It drizzled before I left, drizzled after, but poured while I was biking.

Ah, to be a JV.

At least the shelter has free clothes so I went and snagged myself a high quality pair of mom jeans circa 1985. The waist comes roughly up to my arm pits and the legs end somewhere right above my shoes. But at least they are dry.