Just ten short days ago I thought autumn would last until March and that (further deluding myself) a mild-tempered March would give way to that sudden burst of vernal warmth Chicagoans only see in sitcoms: spring.
Of course, that ten-day-old delusion seems so distant, so shattered, now.
January finally reared its rambunctious head and coughed up a bit of snow. Set against today’s crisp blue skies, it’s Chicagoland’s best attempt at breathtaking. It’s trying to trick us into forgetting what’s just around the corner: frigid gales, frozen car locks, gutter-bending icicles, newspapers entombed in piles of snow-plowed snow-gunge. But for now I’m going to push those visions aside and enjoy the beautiful day.
Even though this means I must now abandon my delusion of a mild winter, I’m not going to panic. I’m going to calmly admit to myself that it’s no longer October and it’s not yet April. I’m going to admit that it’s just going to be January then. For one month. January, do you hear me? You get one month.