I am grateful for the simple joy of dancing in the rain, safe in the knowledge I have a safe place I can dry off.

The second half of that sentence is doing all the work. Rain is delightful when a towel and a radiator are waiting twenty minutes away. It is something else entirely when there's nowhere to go dry.

Most of what we call spontaneity rests on an invisible floor — a lock, a change of clothes, someone who'd notice if you didn't come home. The floor is what makes the leap look brave rather than reckless.

Worth knowing what your floor is made of, and who built parts of it for you.

Then go get rained on anyway. That was always the point.