Grey, Grey, Grey

The colors of a Chicago winter are monotonous to say the least. When struggling down an ice encrusted sidewalk, it's like existing in a black and white movie, the odd bright coat pulling you briefly out of your stupor. It's cold and it's damp and this city is seriously lacking and redeeming qualities at this point. My hunched shoulders have forgotten what it feels like to be unburdened by a coat. My nose has forgotten there was a time it didn't snivel out of doors. I'm exhausted by it all, like the lead tinted sky is bearing down on me.

There's a tiny sadness that perches on my shoulder, huddling close to my ear that has one enemy, the sun. Perhaps it was my over consumption of sunlight growing up in Florida that has left me an addict, tired and angry when in withdrawal. I think in aching longing of laying stretched out in the backyard, book in hand, sweat upon brow, slightly uncomfortable in the mid-summer heat, but undeniably happy.

You would think that for a girl as pale as I am that perpetual shade would be a good thing. In fact I love my fair skin. I'd not feel like myself if my skin bronzed. But I miss being warm. I miss huddling under a wide brim hat and lathering myself in sunscreen. I miss that tired feeling you get only after spending a summer day outside, beaten by a relentless sun.

But I suppose the grass is always greener. One day it'll be hot and I'll long for the crisp, apple scented air of autumn. I'll curse the burn left on my tender shoulder blades. I'll sit in front of my less than impressive window air conditioning unit in my thinnest of airy nightgowns, praying for a break in the impenetrable heat. But until that day, I'll continue to shake my fist at old man winter and his inability to agree with my fragile disposition.