In Chicago, Big Boss Weather is
King. It's either the weather's way or
you'd better move to California--which is exactly what I think about doing about
halfway through each winter I've spent in Chicago. 'Time to move back west,' I
tell anyone who will listen, 'yep, I'll be damned if I spend another winter
walking into tiny, wind-driven ice-shards that always seem to blow into your face no matter
which direction you go.' That last part is often just muttered to myself as i
plunge through said ice-shards, known in more optimistic circles as 'snow,'
cursing internally every step of the way. I used to get so angry with the
weather. Like a rebellious teenager, I was fed up with having my life defined
by this external, inexorable force that just didn't get me. I like to look cute and wear heels, Weather, stop putting this
gross muddy snow all over the ground! Dammit Wind! There you go ruining an
otherwise beautiful day and forcing me to stagger down the sidewalk fighting to
keep my skirt down like a misguided Marilyn Monroe parody. I tried to call
Winter depression anything else. Surely something like the Weather, that small-talk
starter, that minor factor in deciding what to wear in the morning, couldn't be
causing anything more than a case of the grumps? Weather seemed too trivial to
have anything to do with serious mood alterations.
