Tuesday, November 15, 2005


The deal being made of Chicago's impending cold is big. Epically so. But I'm not concerned. I'll feel more at home in a city sharp and frosty and frigid, as I am those things, too.

As in Chicago Winters past, I will: Dress too light for too long. Catch my death of cold. Defy the Laws of Science, the History of Medicine. Recover miraculously. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. (That whole to-do about going outside with wet hair is an old wives' tale, you know, and I refuse to put stock in anything remotely wife-related.)

I will: Find solace in the steelyblue skyline. Take photographs that, for once, don't evoke Monet or Manet or whoever it was who used all that dreadful splotchy pink. Appreciate the natural duotoning of mirrored windows, metal rooftops, limestone, brick, glass.

I will: Start a fashion movement — mid-calf saltring chic. Have better hair days ("windtousled" will agree with me). Discover a way to discreetly wiggle out of underlayers in too-artificially-hot public venues.

I will: Continue my affair with public transportation without complaint. Chuckle through pursed-chapped lips at the overwrapped, down-padded masses elbowing for space beneath humming two-by-two lamps.

I will recall learning about heat, about wattage and kilocalories, about the pressure dynamics that cause radiators to hiss. I will not remember what it was I learned, exactly, only that, at some point, I knew something, something of heat.