Chicago, and indeed much of the country, is in the middle of what promises to be the longest cold-snap in more than fifty years – a remarkable feat, given the polar-vortexes (vortices?) that have gripped the city since 2014.  If I were back at work, I would likely be bemoaning the 6am commute in sub-zero temperatures with even subber-zero wind chills, but instead, I’m spending many of my hours holed up, wrapped in blankets, listening to my furnace kick at remarkable intervals, while going absolutely stir crazy.

It’s not that I haven’t ventured out – I have.  On December 28^th, I ran out to my car to race to the gym to make a 6 pm Zumba class only to find the battery dead as a doornail.  Determined to get a jump-start on my resolution to reclaim my personal fitness, I bundled tighter and walked to take the train only to watch my phone battery drain to nothing as the pink line train trundled toward the West Loop. It’s amazing the level to which we’ve come to rely on our smartphones, even when we don’t actually need them to continue breathing.  Cognitively, I knew I would be fine without it, but tell that to my central nervous system.  The level of panic that settled in my chest as the screen went black was alarming.  

I slip –slided across fresh snow, made it to the gym in time to miss the Zumba class, and begged the nice people at the front desk to charge my phone. On the way home, I blindly stepped onto what I assumed was the correct train, only to realize as the automated voice monotoned, “Doors. Closing.” that I was in fact headed for Oak Park. I eventually made it home, filled my belly with leftovers that likely negated my workout, and watched two episodes of Outlander, thinking I would trudge around in this weather every day if I could find someone who looked at me the way Jaime looks at Claire.

Then, on New Year’s Day, I walked to get Thai food with my friend Darya.  It was five degrees below zero but felt like -20 with the wind chill.  We walked less than a half-mile to a tiny Thai place on 18^th, ordered twice as much wonton soup and Pad Thai as we could eat, and then sat down to realize the restaurant was so cold we could see our breath. Actually see our breath.  As our plates and bowls steamed before us, I ate as much as I could handle and wondered vaguely how much MSG is too much, before we stepped back out into air that bit through the swaths of fabric we were layered in and burned the exposed skin on our cheeks. 

As I write, there are flurries whipping through the gray morning light, but my weather app says it’s three degrees.  That’s fifteen warmer than yesterday at the same time.  While most of my minutes outside in the last week or so have been spent swearing under my frozen breath, today I am determined to count my blessings.  My health and safety are not immediately threatened by this weather.  I have a warm home, a car with a new, working battery, and plenty of warm places to go should I wish to amuse myself.  I have a boatload of work to finish before I go back to work next week, but plenty of time to do it if I can focus my sluggish, scattered brain.

Even in the midst of this brutal weather, things have been interesting on the talking to strangers front.  I went to two big-ticket parties over the New Year’s holiday – High Sight’s Eve of the Eve, and New Year’s Eve at Marshall’s Landing.  Incidentally, both were held in Chicago’s sprawling Merchandise Mart.  At Eve of the Eve, I met an Australian financial trader, and on NYE I was approached by the most determined and complimentary twenty-five-year-old I’ve ever met.  Undeterred by our nine-year age difference, he followed me around the entire evening, and texted me the next morning with a picture of us and the caption “we look good together.” Both men asked me to dinner, and I think the Australian just might follow through.  Time will tell.  Either way, it’s a new year and a perfect time for me to recommit to my goals of openness and personal connection.

On a final note, tonight is the first class of the storytelling course I signed up for.  It’s one night a week for the next eight weeks, and I have pretty much zero idea what to expect from it.  I’m hopeful that it will keep me writing consistently, make me think about my life and my stories differently, and end with me telling a story live on stage.  It will be a challenge, but I’m looking forward to the growth opportunity, and the promise of all the strangers I’ll get to talk to.

Don’t worry, you can read all about it here.

 

Until next time…