I know it's been said 1,000 times or more but I am so sick of winter. Sick, sick, sick of it. I used to love cold weather, but I think one too many Chicago winters has turned me bitter. I’ve become a pasty ghost, shallow eyed and asleep waiting for shift in the weather.
I go in my closet and look at all the lovely summer dresses I have tucked away. Some are boxed up, their bright floral patterns pressing up against the side of the plastic container, waiting for release. My other dresses spill out over the tops for me to touch, to wish on.
The cold has become an excuse, an enemy. I won't go hang out with friends because it's too cold. I should go to the store and buy groceries so my family can eat but it's too cold. I didn't want to walk a block in cold to get a cupcake last week because it was too cold. One block! A cupcake!
I keep thinking of this Chekhov quote: "People don't notice whether it's winter or summer when they're happy."
I think it's time I took up a new hobby seeing how I'm already a master at complaining.
