I'm a windbag

The reason I decided to move here in early November with no job, as opposed to maybe the dead of winter with one, is because I wanted to get to know the city, the weather, the people before I began working full time in a city where the weather is more prominent than the people. People go into hiding, from what I'm told, as soon as it starts getting ridiculously, miserably, bitterly cold.

In my last entry, I patted myself on the back for enduring the cold with such little effort. It is now not such an effortless task. On Thursday, I left the house wearing two pairs of (long) thick socks, a tank top underneath a long-sleeved shirt underneath a UCLA zip-up underneath my new 3/4 length down jacket, some heavy gloves, ear warmers, and some jeans. The second I hit the pavement, a chill set in that went straight to my bones and stood there, perfectly content to find a new (unsuspecting) home. It was only 23 degrees out, a temperature I had been out in before. But now the days have with them the chill that will last until spring. Whenever it got windy in Los Angeles, I wanted to run outside with my arms open, hair flying, feet dancing because they were the hot winds that made me feel so alive (and crazy). They made my blood rush; they sizzled my skin. They made me "feel." These Chicago winds definitely remind me that I am a sentient being. Pain is a feeling that comes to mind. And nothing reminds us more effectively of the fact that we are alive than pain. Oh yes, I am alive. I am alive. And cold. And chapped. And red-cheeked. Especially after my first fall, straight on my ass, from the icy ground. But this is all par for the course. I did say I wanted something different, right? Well I got it.