No one is more excited than me that the arctic chill of winter has been replaced with sunshine.
All you Midwesterners are accustomed to rising from the ashes each year, but I’m from Southern California.
I wasn’t made for multiple personalities disorder weather.
I just barely survived this winter–my third since moving to Chicago.
I actually liked the first two. It was the whole novelty thing. I liked the uncharted fashion territory–scarves and wool coats. Boots! And I dug the changing seasons.
“You experience life more richly here,” I used to brag to my pals in California. “A sunny day here is hard fought, so you appreciate it more. And when the seasons turn, it makes you more self-aware and contemplative.”
Whatever.
Now I’m just, like, “It’s really [bleeping] cold.”
There’s nothing more depressing than waking up day after day to freezing gray ick. It’s like each day is a battle. You versus the sky. If you can survive the elements and make it to your office, you can make it to the next day and do it again.
In California “winters,” there were no battles. I just put on a pair of closed-toed shoes and a sweater.
It’s the ease I miss most. I was never that into surfing or anything beachy. I actually dreaded the spring and summer back home because that was when all the tall, tan, skinny blond girls came out in their miniskirts and my freckles were exposed in all their pasty inadequacy. At least here everyone has to ditch their winter bods, and I don’t feel so bad about not looking like a beach bum in April.
Still, I miss my native land. I spent all of March watching Season 1 of “The O.C.” on DVD to prep for halter tops and sandals–and, of course, because I love Adam Brody–so to actually wear my flip-flops this weekend was a huge feeling of release.
The thing is, though, the weekend also reminded me of Chicago Summer Guilt.
You know you’ve experienced it.
It’s finally nice out, so you feel like you have to be Super Outdoorsy Woman.
In winter if it was a long week at work, you didn’t feel bad all balled up on your couch in the fetal position with a bowl of microwave popcorn watching “The Gastineau Girls.” Snow days are designed for chilling out.
You know that summer days are limited, though, so there is a pressure to maximize them. This has never happened to me before, since every day in California is basically the same.
On Saturday, it was fairly nice out, and I was beside myself because I couldn’t decide what the appropriate way to spend the day would be.
My boyfriend and I threw out like 5,000 suggestions–Cubs game, tennis, basketball, walk at the lake.
Honestly, I was tired, and a huge part of me just wanted to finish my last seven episodes of “The O.C.”
But I couldn’t shake the guilt. Even though finding out whether or not Marisa’s evil mom is going to sleep with her ex-boyfriend is totally gripping, who can rationalize sitting indoors watching outdated episodes of a teen soap opera when it’s finally sunny?
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Still, I didn’t have enough energy to tackle all the drunk jerks in Wrigleyville celebrating opening weekend. I didn’t want to hit myself in the head with my tennis racket. (Yes, it has happened before.) I didn’t want to fight a pack of 6th graders for a spot on the basketball court. And I didn’t want to drive to the lake through Saturday traffic.
For months I’ve been complaining to anyone who will listen about how freezing and grouchy I am. You’d think I’d be celebrating all these options.
Instead, I did the bare minimum and took a nice, long walk around Bucktown.
There will be plenty of other weekends to embrace my manic depressive relationship with the sky.
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