I get an email every two days—some things, if not everything, a whole 20% off. In the morning I open these emails and their respective links to compare colors and sizes and genders and websites and alternative deals. The rains are coming and I cannot stop opening tabs.

On Tuesday my therapist has to help me decide. I hold up screenshots and she asks me what is at stake.

Well for one, I tell her, this one [“Men’s Rain Hoodie in SHADY CAMO”] is really cool. It’s kinda boy in a way I like, but what if one day I wake up and it’s pouring rain and I don’t want to be a boy — I want to be a princess or even just a girl who doesn’t have a camo print raincoat. This one [“Norweigan Wharf Street in Electric Mango”] is kinda like, “Ok this is a raincoat,”and I can’t decide if embracing the cliché makes it less silly to be wearing a raincoat. Should a raincoat acknowledge its cultural place, its history, and the weather? And this one [“Packable Waterproof Jacket in Avocado”] is something your aunt would have because she bought it from a catalog where you order raincoats. Y ou know what? I think I just decided. That’s who I want to be. I think I want to look like a person who ordered a raincoat from a catalog and did not think about it at all, someone who just picked green because it is their favorite color and not because it is the least gendered statement across tabs and space, because it is at once cool and uncool, because this is a non-choice, because it’s just a raincoat.

She says, “Great,” and we press [Add to Cart], and I close all the tabs but one. I stare at the purchase button and wonder why she didn’t ask me about my favorite color, which is purple and not green, but maybe she knows this is not the point or maybe she is bad at her job.

It does not rain where I come from. Famously not one drop for ten years, and they were formative years, the kind when one might practice letting go of the color blue for orange, when one might test new technologies of reflectiveness and repellent potential. I have owned two raincoats in my time and one of them had a ducky on it.

The first time I lived somewhere with rain, it started at 11 a.m. and I kept waiting for it to stop. I could not believe it did not stop at the end of the hour, or after class, and then again after dinner. It did not even stop when the sun went down. I waited three days. The streets were a soppingdeep purple under street lights and I hated the way everything was always splashing against objects. It was so loud. I look out my window where I open my tabs and watch the sky. I am prepared this time, my raincoat is on the way.

When my package arrives something is wrong. The bag is the right size but the object inside feels too small. Inside there are black and white biking gloves and no receipt, no statement of object. I check the front of the bag, it says my name in all caps. I check all my emails that call the gloves a raincoat: “Y our raincoat has been delivered!” “Thank you for your purchase of ‘Packable Waterproof Jacket in Avocado’.” “Please leave a review of your new raincoat.” I want to leave a review but I do not have a raincoat I have gloves. I don’t even own a bicycle.

I call the center to ask if I am nuts now, officially, or if they sent me gloves. A lady named Crystal neither confirms nor denies if I am nuts or if I am holding gloves, but she does say sorry. She promises to send my raincoat if they have it in stock, which they do, and I can have it tomorrow. She says I will need to send the gloves back.

My new avocado-colored raincoat arrives the day before the first rain. It’s packable and very thin. Too thin. I wish I had read the reviews.