Here in Chicago, complaining about winter is just a thing we do. It’s cathartic, communal, and commiserative. That’s co-misery . . . ative–you get the idea. We complain about the cold weather, wind, and lack of sunlight during the winter months, and we do it up right.
Usually, I complain with the best of them, but this year was different. This year I had a bone to pick. People started whining about winter in August. It wasn’t even fall yet, and people had just barely begun to notice that the days were no longer 92 degrees but 89 degrees. Bring on the prognostications and ominous foreboding.
October rolls around, and all I hear about is Old Man Winter, despite the fact that we had a generally beautiful fall. By the time it finally snowed, on the second to last day of November, I’d heard so much about winter that you’d have thought we’d been buried drifts for months.
In this way, Chicagoans make winter longer than it is. Granted, there have been some harsh ones here, and somehow the lake, the grid layout, and the generally narrow streets and scarcity of greenery in some neighborhoods do make it a bit ickier than some more rural places that get colder temperatures and more snow. But there’s a lot to love about winter–don’t worry, I won’t go into all of it. You know you thought the Snowpocalypse was cool and you like sweaters–and complaining about it gets you into a cold state of mind.
In fact, recently those smartypants scientists have learned the the “brown fat” in your body, which protects you from the cold, can take a few weeks to get activated. This means that if you tough out the first few weeks of cold without wearing eight layers once it hits 45 degrees, your body will get used to it a little. I can remember doing this as a kid in Montana before I knew there was actual science behind it. I was simply too lazy to bring a coat everywhere and liked to think of myself as tough, so I’d go out in 20 degrees without a coat. Mid-winter I’d always notice that I didn’t get as cold as everyone else did. Gold star for twelve-year-old me.
The scientists just illustrate my point: Cold is in your head, at least to a degree. Several degrees, in fact. On the thermometer. PLAY ON WORDS.
So, dear Chicago, next fall can we just chill out a bit (Eh? Catch that one?) with the collective dread? Let’s enjoy the warm sun whilst it tarries in the sky and abstain from the portentous pessimism.