It’s more than cold.
It’s clothing. Tons of it. Closet fulls. It doesn’t look good or feel good or MAKE you feel good.
It’s your skin. On fire. Stinging. Hurting. Red. Dry. Numb.
It’s pain. Literal pain. When you don’t wear enough. When there’s a seam. When something has a hole in it. When you dare to be optimistic about the temperature. When you just don’t want to carry so much. When you’re over it.
It’s the same fucking boots every fucking day.
It’s bulk and hassle and coat checks and sweat.
It’s hats and gloves and scarves to put on and take off and put on and take off and then lose.
It’s the outside, but perverted. Bizarro. Turned on its head.
It’s a beautiful day that feels miserable. No time for appreciation or sauntering or considering or deep breaths. Just the sting. The howl. The pain. Just warm place to warm place.
It’s not green. It’s not liveable. It’s not comfortable.
It’s white. It’s dangerous. It’s dead.
It’s dog shit. And dog piss. Frozen and buried for months at a time.
It’s not mountains or slopes or quiet white beauty.
It’s grey mounds with hundreds of cigarettes in them. On every corner. Every single corner.
It’s ice. Black ice that causes crashes. Thick ice that causes slips. Layers of ice that won’t relent for days or weeks. Ice up high that melts and plummets to the ground in massive people-killing chunks.
It’s dry. Dry skin, dry lips, dry throats. Flakey. Painful. Itchy. Alarming.
It’s hibernation. It’s 3 inches to your waistline. It’s depression. It’s more subtances. It’s constant cabin fever.
It’s demotivation. It’s “why?” It’s strange blue lights to cope.
It’s not snowshoes or snowboards or skiis or ice skates.
It’s dark. It’s grey. It’s monochrome people in a monochrome environments who can barely remember what color it is.
It’s more than cold. It’s more than a season.
It’s insanity. It’s 41.6% of the Chicago year.