Spring in Chicago, or How I Forgot to Dress
Wednesday I woke up to snow. By the time I finished my shower, the sun was beaming through the bathroom window. I checked the AccuWeather app, a daily point of contention but a necessary task when living in Chicago. It told me 40 degrees and light snow, and my first thought was how many shorts or sandals I’d see out on the street, another necessary task for some Chicagoans, certainly not the faint of heart.
However, as someone who prides themself on looking presentable, I shuffled through my closet in an attempt to get dressed. With the unpredictable and often unforgiving weather this city bestows upon us in Spring, I quickly realized I’d have to adopt the mind of a chess or pool player. I’d have to have my outfit figured out a few steps ahead. I’d have to somehow predict, and hope, that the sun would come out and that I could get away with a T-shirt, blazer, and jeans. I recently acquired a camel blazer in a hazel tone that I couldn’t let sit in my closet another day, so I put my faith in it. With a newly dampened street, I couldn’t afford to wear loafers so I went with Sambas. Thus, my day began.
Wind. Wind all over the place, ripping open my blazer and hugging me like a mother would her child while dropping them off at school. You never really like it. It only takes a matter of seconds after leaving the house to know you fucked up, in regards to wardrobe, that is. It was at this moment I realized that spring in Chicago is that awkward hair length that you need to push through in order to achieve the locks you desire. In my case, spring in Chicago is teaching me that I won’t be pulling off good outfits, at least until I can be certain that the sun will stay out, that the wind will die down, and that my blazer won’t be nonconsensually opened by the elements.