FIFTY SHADES OF DAMP

Earlier this week, the Japanese Meteorological Agency cautiously announced that the Tokyo region had "likely entered the rainy season."

"Likely?" I thought.

Looking at the monsoon-level deluge outside, I was pretty certain that we had DEFINITELY entered the rainy season. But I suppose meteorologists aren't in the business of guarantees. They wouldn’t want to be flooded (pun intended) with complaints like, "Excuse me, where are the promised torrential downpours? All I got was a weak drizzle and slightly damp socks!"

Now, if you've never experienced the Japanese rainy season, or tsuyu (梅雨) in Japanese, allow me to paint a picture. Imagine walking into a sauna fully clothed, someone spritzing you in the face with lukewarm water while a thousand umbrellas silently bump you in the ribs on a crowded train platform. For six straight weeks.

So, let me introduce you to the five stages of rainy season:

Stage 1: Optimism

It begins innocently enough. The forecast says “light showers,” and you smugly pack your foldable umbrella and wear your cute waterproof shoes. “A little rain can’t hurt,” you say, like a fool.

That first drizzle feels refreshing. Romantic, even. You sip a hot matcha latte and watch the droplets race down the café window like it's an anime scene. "This isn’t so bad!" you declare.

Oh, sweet summer child.

Stage 2: Denial

By Day 3, your laundry feels like it hasn't dried since 1997. Everything in your apartment feels vaguely damp. Your clothes smell like a swamp. Mold has annexed the northern region of your bathroom.

But you press on. "I’ll just use the dehumidifier more!" you shout while tripping over the fourth umbrella you've accumulated in the past week – because you always forget to bring one, and your local convenience store is now your umbrella dealer.

Stage 3: Existential Dread

By Week 2, you have accepted that your laundry will never be dry again. Your socks are permanently moist. The air is so humid that you need to swim to your local station.

Your umbrella turns inside-out in a shocking act of betrayal. You glare at an elderly lady who has perfectly managed her parasol, plastic poncho, and a week’s worth of groceries while you look like a soggy rag from a Ghibli movie about mild depression.

Stage 4: Acceptance

You’ve stopped styling your hair. It’s either frizzy, flat, or both at once, in ways not even science can explain. Straight hair becomes curly. Curly hair becomes a cloud.

You now calculate humidity in percentages of emotional damage. You spot a single ray of sunlight and weep.

Stage 5: The Great Drying Festival

One day… it ends. The clouds part, the sun explodes onto the earth, and temperatures skyrocket. Laundry hangs proudly outside on balconies like flags of freedom. You do three weeks’ worth of laundry in one euphoric afternoon. You dare to smile again.

You look back at tsuyu and laugh… nervously. Because you know – deep down – that it will return next year.

Or will it?

And here comes the latest twist, courtesy of climate change.

Last year's rainy season was very odd. Instead of consistent, steady rainfall from early June to mid-July, the season started in the Kanto region only in late June – the third latest start since records began in 1951. When it did show up, it delivered random monsoons, followed by a long dry spell, when it forgot to rain entirely. Even after two straight weeks without as much as a drop of rain, meteorologists hesitated to officially declare it over, probably out of fear that doing so would summon another storm cell out of spite. But eventually, even they had to admit that the rainy season had probably ended weeks ago.

The previous year had shown similarly erratic behaviour of the Japanese weather gods.

And this year?

After an initial few soaked days, the forecast now calls for a sudden surge in temperature with dry and hot weather from next Monday for the foreseeable future...

So, what happened to Japan's dreaded rainy season? Has it been cancelled?

Personally, I wouldn't mind. But I suspect farmers might have a few strong opinions, given that tsuyu isn't just an excuse for soggy socks – it's traditionally been a crucial part of Japan's annual rainfall.

No rain, no rice. And let's face it – with the current rice shortage and skyrocketing prices, that's not a comfortable prospect.

Meanwhile, my wife is less than thrilled about being thrown headfirst into scorching summer heat already in mid-June, with the air conditioning having to be cranked up in every room of the house.

As for me?

I'd prefer not to grow gills.