Chicago went from winter to summer in about twelve hours this week. Sunday was cold and rainy but since then I’ve worn a dress to work every single day. Without a jacket. It’s around ninety degrees as I type.
Midwestern cities do summer differently than other areas of the country. When I lived in California an eighty degree day meant nothing to me versus a fifty-five degree one. I just didn’t care; I knew that the next warm day was around the corner whether we were smack dab in the middle of December or at the tail end of July. Here, it’s different.
On Tuesday, the first time we passed the eighty degree mark, our neighborhood went insane. Spontaneous parties popped up on every block, parking was a joke, the main streets were filled with happy half-dressed people on their way here and there and we ended up on the back porch until well after midnight with our own spur of the moment get together, an impromptu moment made complete with a few Trader Joe’s delicious French style pizzas we thankfully had in the freezer.
Tomorrow we go back down to a high of seventy and a low of fifty-five. I’ll be sad, and the weekend will probably be a mess of rain and clouds, but the last three days have reminded me that Chicago is where I want to be for a very long time. I would put up with snow for an entire month more just for the summers that this city churns out. It’s that worth it.