Domestic Dramedy: Scott Thought I Was a Meteorologist and Got Soaked on His Motorcycle Ride Home

Back when Scott and I were dating, he lived in Ohio and I lived in Tennessee, so most of our relationship happened through Messenger. Once I got off work, we were usually on video until bedtime. It was similar to FaceTime, except we were long-distance, slightly ridiculous, and apparently making major transportation decisions based on whatever popped up on my iPhone.

One evening while we were talking, Scott mentioned that he wanted to ride his motorcycle to work the next day. The bike was new to him at the time, and he was still getting used to riding again, so he did not want to take it if there was a good chance of rain. That was a perfectly reasonable thought. Responsible, even. He checked his weather app, saw there was a decent chance of rain, and had pretty much talked himself out of riding.

Then he made the mistake of asking me what I thought.

Now, let me be clear. I have never had any formal meteorological training. I do not work for a weather station. I do not own radar equipment. I do not stand in front of a green screen pointing at Ohio. I lived over 700 miles away in Tennessee and worked in a law office. That was the full extent of my qualifications. But I do have an iPhone, a strong opinion, and a long history of sounding confident when I have absolutely no business sounding confident.

So I opened my trusty generic weather app, typed in the city where he lived, and immediately promoted myself to Director of Ohio Weather Decisions. According to my very official research, there was only a 30% chance of rain. I then explained to Scott that this meant only 30% of his area would see rain, so he had great odds of not getting caught in anything.

Did I know if that was accurate? No. Did I explain it like I had spent years studying storm systems and precipitation patterns? Yes. I went on about percentages, coverage areas, timing, and probably a few other things I had no business discussing. The whole time, I sounded calm, confident, and completely believable, which is honestly one of my more dangerous talents.

That is where Scott’s second mistake came in. He believed me.

This is the part I feel strongly about. Scott had his own weather app. He had his own eyes. He had his own Ohio sky right there above his head. I was sitting in Tennessee, probably in pajamas, making weather predictions from a phone app while acting like I had a direct line to the clouds. And yet, somehow, he decided to ignore his own better judgment and trust me.

That is not on me. That is on the grown man who trusted his long-distance girlfriend with zero weather credentials over his own weather app. Love may be blind, but apparently it is also damp.

The next morning, the ride to work was fine. No rain. Just overcast skies. I am sure he felt pretty good about his decision. It probably looked like I knew what I was talking about, which is always dangerous because that only encourages me. It did rain while he was at work, but by the time three o’clock rolled around, the rain had stopped. He walked outside, saw that it was not raining, and figured he was in the clear.

So he put on his motorcycle jacket, strapped on his helmet, climbed onto that Harley, and fired it up loud enough for everyone nearby to know Scott was off work and ready to be free. For a little while, everything was fine. He was riding home, enjoying the road, probably thinking I had accidentally become a weather genius.

Then he felt it. One drop. Then another. Then Ohio humbled everybody involved.

It started pouring. Not sprinkling. Not misting. Pouring. Scott was on the motorcycle, in the rain, getting absolutely soaked. He was not happy, but he stayed focused on the road and made it home safely, which matters because as funny as this story is now, motorcycles and rain are no joke. He got home in one piece, irritated, dripping wet, and probably rethinking our entire relationship.

But before he even went inside to dry off, he sat on his porch, pulled out his phone, and made a video to send me while I was still at work. This is where the story becomes one of my favorite Scott moments.

He set up the camera and started recording. He was soaked. His clothes were wet. His shoes were full of water. And he began his dramatic testimony.

“She told me it wouldn’t rain,” he said while taking off one shoe and dumping water out of it. “She said take the chance.” Then he took off the other shoe and dumped out more water. “She said I wouldn’t get rained on.” Then came the socks. He wrung them out on the porch like he had survived a shipwreck instead of a commute home from work.

He looked like a drowned rat with a motorcycle license.

And yes, I laughed. I was at work when his soggy little video testimony came through, and I laughed hard. Not because I did not feel bad for him. I did feel a little bad. But there is something about a soaking wet man blaming you for weather in a state you are not even in that really tests your ability to stay compassionate. Also, let’s be honest. The video was funny.

He was sitting there, dripping wet, giving his closing argument like I had personally gathered the clouds, aimed them at his route home, and said, “Get him.” But I would like to present the facts. I was in Tennessee. He was in Ohio. I was using a basic weather app. He was the one physically standing under the actual Ohio sky. He was the one who owned the motorcycle. He was the one who knew he did not want to ride in the rain. And most importantly, he was the one who asked me.

So yes, I gave bad weather advice. I will admit that. But Scott took that advice, ignored his own weather app, climbed onto a Harley, and rode off like my 30% speech had been delivered by the National Weather Service. That, friends, is what we call shared responsibility.

But mostly his.

Because who asks a woman 700 miles away, sitting indoors in Tennessee, whether he should ride a motorcycle in Ohio weather? That is not a meteorology problem. That is a Scott problem.

To this day, he has never asked me to predict the weather again. Not once. He checks his own app. He looks at radar. He makes his own motorcycle decisions like a man who has learned that Serena’s Weather Desk is not a reliable government agency. And you know what? Growth is beautiful.

He has not been soaked like that on the Harley since, so clearly the lesson worked. I lost my imaginary meteorology badge, and Scott gained a healthy fear of taking weather advice from a woman who works in litigation support and has never once tracked a storm cell on purpose.

That is the thing about dating, marriage, and Domestic Dramedy. Sometimes we are just two people trying to figure life out, one questionable decision at a time. One person says something with entirely too much confidence. The other person believes it. Then somebody ends up on a porch dumping water out of his shoes and documenting the betrayal for future evidence.

And somewhere in the middle of that ridiculous porch performance, there was a sweet part too. He was soaked, annoyed, and blaming me with every squish of those socks, but he still thought to send it to me because that was us. Long-distance, tired from work, laughing through bad decisions, and finding a way to share the moment anyway.

Sometimes grace looks holy and peaceful. Other times, it looks like a drenched man on a porch, a laughing woman at work, and a relationship strong enough to survive both Ohio rain and my fake weather expertise.

For the record, 30% still sounded like decent odds.

But don’t ask me.

I’m retired.